‘So, how’s your week been?’ He couldn’t help noticing how similar Jamie was to his mother. The same startling blue eyes, thick blond hair and delicate features.
‘Fine,’ Jamie said uncertainly. ‘How long is Mumma away for?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I think she’ll probably be back sometime next week.’
‘Oh. What kind of work is it?’
‘Some TV commercial, I think. I’m not sure.’
Jamie took a sip of his Coke. ‘Are you staying at the house in London?’
‘Actually, tomorrow, I’ve decided to go do a bit of touring. Scotland, maybe Ireland. How’s school?’ Simon moved the subject on.
‘Okay. You know, the same.’
‘Right.’
Simon was grateful when their food arrived. Jamie picked at his chicken, answering most attempts at conversation in monosyllables. He refused pudding, even though there was homemade apple pie with ice cream on the menu.
‘I remember always yumming everything up when my parents came to take me out for lunch from school. You sure you’re okay, old chap?’
‘Yes. Do they have boarding schools in New Zealand?’
‘I … yes, of course they do. If you’re miles away from anything, on a sheep farm, you have to board in the city,’ Simon invented. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to a pudding?’
‘Positive.’
Simon was relieved when it was time to take the boy back to school. Jamie sat in the car staring out of the window, humming to himself.
‘What’s that you’re humming?’
‘A nursery rhyme, “Ring a Ring o’ Roses”. Great-James used to sing it to me all the time. When I got older, he told me it was all about people dying of the Black Death.’
‘Do you miss him, Jamie?’
‘Yes. But I know he’s still looking after me from heaven.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘And I still have his roses to remind me of him on earth.’
‘Roses?’
‘Yeah. Great-James loved roses. He has them on his grave now.’
Simon brought the car to a halt in front of the school and Jamie opened the door to climb out. ‘Thanks for lunch, Simon. Safe journey back to London.’
‘Any time. Bye, Jamie.’
Simon watched as Jamie raced up the steps and inside the school. Sighing, he drove the car back along the gravel drive and out of the school. When he arrived back at his flat an hour later, there was a message on his answering machine.
‘Report to me at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow morning.’
Knowing his short break was well and truly at its end, Simon made himself a Caesar salad, then showered and took himself off to bed, trying not to imagine Zoe together with her prince in Spain.
27
On arrival at Cork airport, Joanna went to the car-hire desk and rented a Fiesta. Having furnished herself with a map and some Irish pounds, she followed the signs to the N71 and was surprised that the main road from the airport resembled a byroad from her native Yorkshire. The late-February day was sunny and she took in the fast-burgeoning green of the rolling fields on either side of her.
An hour later, Joanna found herself driving down a steep hill into Rosscarbery village. To her left, a deep estuary bordered by a low wall stretched into the sea far away. Houses, cottages and bungalows were dotted on either side of it. When she reached the bottom of the hill, Joanna stopped the car to take a better look. The tide was out and all manner of bird life was swooping down onto the sand, and a bevy of swans were floating gracefully on a large pool of water left behind by the tide.
After getting out of the car, Joanna leant against the low wall, breathing in deeply. The air smelt so different to that of London: clean, fresh, with a hint of salt that indicated that the Atlantic was less than a mile away. It was then that she saw the house. It stuck right out into the estuary at the end of a narrow causeway, built on a bed of rock with water surrounding it on three sides. It was large, covered in grey slate, a weathervane on the chimney spinning slightly in the breeze. From the description Marcus had given her of a big house out in the bay, surely this had to be it?
A cloud swept over the sun, casting a shadow across the bay and onto the house. Joanna shuddered suddenly, then walked back to her car, started the engine and drove off.
That evening, Joanna sat in the cosy bar of the hotel she had checked in to, and sipped a hot port by the fire. She felt more relaxed than she’d felt for weeks, and even though thoughts of Marcus – under whose name the reservation was made – filled her head, she had fallen asleep that afternoon on the big old double bed in her room. She’d only lain down on it to study the map of Rosscarbery, and the next thing she knew, it was seven o’clock and the room was in darkness.
It’s because I feel safe here, she thought.
‘Will ye be wanting to take your supper in the dining room or here by the fire?’
It was Margaret, wife of Willie, the jovial owner and landlord.
‘Here will do just fine, thanks.’
Joanna sat eating her bacon, cabbage and potatoes and watched as a trail of locals came through the door. Young and old, they all knew each other and seemed to be on intimate terms with the minutiae of each other’s lives. Feeling sated after her supper, she sauntered towards the bar and ordered a final pre-bedtime hot port.
‘You here for a holiday, so?’ a middle-aged man in overalls and wellingtons asked her from his perch by the bar.
‘Partly,’ she replied. ‘I’m also searching for a relative of mine.’
‘Sure, there’s always people coming over here looking for a relative. It might be said our blessed country managed to germinate half the Western hemisphere.’
This elicited chuckles from the other drinkers in the bar.
‘So, what would your relative be called then?’ asked the man.
‘Michael O’Connell. I’d reckon he was born here around the turn of the century.’
The man rubbed his chin. ‘There’s bound to be a few of those, being as it is such a common name hereabouts.’
‘Have you any idea where I could check?’
‘The register of births and deaths, next door to the chemist in the square. And the churches, of course. Or you could go into Clonakilty where your man has started up a business tracing Irish heritage.’ He drained his pint of stout. ‘He’s bound to find an O’Connell that’s related to you on his computer, long as you’ve paid him his fee.’ The man winked at his neighbour on the bar stool next to him. ‘Strange really, how times change. Sixty years ago we were bogmen who’d crawled out from under a stone. Nobody wanted to exchange the time of day with us. Now, even the President of the United States wants to be related to us.’
‘True, true,’ nodded his neighbour.
‘Do you by any chance know who owns the house sticking out into the estuary? The grey stone one, with the weathervane?’ Joanna asked tentatively.
An old woman dressed in an ancient anorak, a woollen hat covering her hair, studied Joanna from her seat in the corner with sudden interest.
‘Ah, jaysus, that old wreck?’ said the man. ‘It’s been empty as long as I’ve been living here. You’d have to be asking Fergal Mulcahy, the local historian, maybe. I think it was owned by the British once, long ago. They used it as a coastguards’ outpost, but since then … I’d say there’s a lot of property lying about these parts without an owner to tend to it.’
‘Thanks anyway.’ Joanna took the hot port from the bar. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Night, missus. Hope you find yer roots.’
The old woman in the corner stood up soon after Joanna left and headed for the door.
The man at the bar nudged his neighbour at the woman’s departure. ‘Should have sent her down to mad Ciara Deasy. She’d be sure to spin her a tale or two of the O’Connells of Rosscarbery.’
Both men chuckled and ordered another round of Murphy’s on the strength of the joke.
The next morning, after
a big Irish breakfast, Joanna prepared to go out. The weather was filthy, the spring promise of yesterday forestalled by a grim, grey rain that shrouded the bay below her in mist.
She spent the morning wandering around the fine Protestant cathedral and spoke to the friendly dean who let her look through the records of baptisms and marriages. ‘It’s more likely you’ll find your fella registered in St Mary’s, the Catholic church down the road. Us Protestants always have been a minority around here.’ He smiled ruefully.
At St Mary’s, the priest finished hearing confession, then unlocked the cupboard where the register books were kept. ‘If he was born in Ross, he’ll be in the records. There wasn’t a baby round these parts that wasn’t baptised here in those days. Now, it’s 1900 we’re after, is it?’
‘Yes.’
Joanna spent the next half an hour looking through the names of those baptised. There was not a single baby O’Connell in that year. Or the years before or after.
‘Are you sure you have the right name? I mean, if it was O’Connor, then we’d be in business,’ the priest said.
Joanna wasn’t sure about anything. She was over here on the apparent words of an old man, and the throwaway comment of a young boy. Chilled to the bone now, Joanna left the church and wandered across the square and back to her hotel for a bowl of soup to warm her up.
‘Any luck?’ asked Margaret.
‘Nothing.’
‘You should ask some of the old ones in town. They might remember the name. Or Fergal Mulcahy, as your man at the bar suggested last night. He teaches history up at the boys’ school.’
Joanna thanked her and that afternoon was annoyed to discover that the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths was closed. Seeing the rain had stopped and needing some fresh air and exercise, she borrowed a bicycle from Margaret’s daughter. She set off from the village and towards the estuary, the wind stinging her face as the bicycle juddered along with its sticky gears. The narrow causeway wound round for a good half a mile before the coastguard’s house came into view. When she drew near it, she propped up her bicycle by the wall. Even from here, she could see there were holes in the slate roof, the windowpanes cracked or boarded up.
Joanna took a step towards the rusting gate. It creaked open. She climbed the steps up to the front door and tentatively grasped the handle. The old lock may have been rusty, but it still knew how to keep out uninvited visitors. She wiped some grime away from the window on the left of it with her sleeve. Peering in, she could see nothing but blackness.
Stepping back from the house, she considered other means of entry. She noticed a broken windowpane overlooking the estuary at the back. The only way to get to it was to walk down into the estuary itself and climb up the high, sloping sea wall behind the house. Luckily the tide was out, so Joanna walked down the steps, slippery and green from seaweed, and onto the wet sand. She reckoned the wall stood about ten feet high, protecting the house from the water around it.
Managing to get a foothold in the crumbling brick, she clambered laboriously up the wall, and onto a ledge of about two feet wide. Just above her was the broken window. Pulling herself to standing, she peered inside. Even though there was little wind outside the house, she could hear the soft cry of it inside. The room through the window must have been the kitchen; there was still an old black range – rusty with neglect – along one wall and a sink with an old-fashioned water pump over it along the other. Joanna looked down and saw a dead rat in the middle of the grey-slated floor.
A door banged suddenly from somewhere inside the house. Joanna jumped in fright and almost fell backwards off the ledge. Turning round, she sat and dangled her legs off the edge to ease herself down before she jumped, landing in the soft, wet sand below. Dusting the sand from her jeans, she hurried back to her bicycle, climbed on and pedalled as fast as she could away from the house.
Ciara Deasy watched Joanna from the window of her cottage. She’d always known that one day, someone would come and she’d be able to tell her story at last.
‘This is your man, Fergal Mulcahy,’ announced Margaret, guiding Joanna over to the bar the next day.
‘Hello.’ Joanna smiled, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. She’d expected Fergal Mulcahy to be a fusty professor-type person with a thick grey beard. In fact, Fergal was probably not much older than her and was dressed very pleasantly in a pair of jeans and a fisherman’s jumper. He had thick black hair, blue eyes and reminded Joanna painfully of Marcus. Then he stood up and she saw he was much taller than her ex-boyfriend, with a far leaner frame.
‘Good to be meeting you, Joanna. I hear you’ve lost a relative.’ His eyes crinkled kindly as he smiled.
‘Yes.’
Fergal tapped the bar stool next to him. ‘Take a pew, we’ll have a glass and you can tell me all about it. A glass and a pint, Margaret, please.’
Joanna, who had never tasted stout in her life, found the creamy, iron taste of the Murphy’s very palatable indeed.
‘Now then, what’s the name of this relative of yours?’
‘Michael O’Connell.’
‘You’ve tried the churches, I suppose?’
‘Yes. He wasn’t on any of the christening entries. Or the marriages. I would have tried the registrar’s office but—’
‘It’s closed at the weekends, I know. Well, I can sort that. The registrar just happens to be my father.’ Fergal dangled a key in front of her. ‘And he lives above the shop.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And I hear you’re interested in the coastguard’s house?’
‘Yes, although I’m not sure it has anything to do with my missing relative.’
‘A grand old house it was once. My dad’s got photos of it somewhere. Sad it’s been left to rack and ruin, but of course none in the village would touch it.’
‘Why’s that?’
Fergal sipped at his fresh pint. ‘Maybe you know how it is in small places. Myths and legends grow out of a small grain of truth and some mighty gossip. And being empty so long, that house has had its fair share of stories. I’d reckon it’ll be some rich American who’ll come along and steal the place for nothing.’
‘What were the stories, Mr Mulcahy?’
‘Come now, call me Fergal.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m a historian. I deal with facts, not fantasy, so I’ve never believed a word of it.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Except you wouldn’t find me down there around midnight on the eve of a full moon.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It is said around these parts that about seventy years ago or so, a young woman from the village, Niamh Deasy, got herself in trouble with a man who was staying at the coastguard’s house. The man left to return to his homeland in England, leaving the girl with child. She went stone mad with grief, so they say, gave birth to a dead baby in the house before dying soon after herself. There are those in the village believe the house is still haunted by her, that Niamh’s cries of pain and fear can still be heard echoing from the house on a stormy night. Some have even spoken of seeing her face at the window, her hands covered with her blood.’
Joanna’s own blood ran cold. She took a nervous sip of the Murphy’s and almost choked on it.
‘’Tis only a story.’ Fergal looked at her with concern. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No … You haven’t, really. It’s fascinating. Seventy years ago, you say? There must have been people around at the time who are still living today.’
‘There are indeed. The girl’s younger sister, Ciara, still lives in the family homestead. Don’t try talking to her, mind. She’s always been short of a few punts, since she was a child. She believes every word of the story, and adds her own finishing touches to it, I can tell you.’
‘So the baby died?’
‘That’s the story, although some say that Niamh’s father murdered it. I’ve even heard tell that the baby was taken off by the leprechauns …’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Try and envisage a time, not so long ago, wi
thout electricity, when the only form of sport was to gather together to drink, play music and swap stories, true or otherwise. News has always been like Chinese whispers in Ireland, each man vying with the other to make his story bigger and better. In this case, mind, ’tis true the girl died. But in that house, mad from thwarted love?’ Fergal shrugged. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Where does this Ciara live?’
‘Down in the pink cottage overlooking the bay, opposite the coastguard’s house. A chilling view for her, you might say. Well now, would you like to pop along the road and have a look through the records my father has?’
‘Yes, if it’s convenient for you?’
‘’Tis fine. No rush.’ Fergal indicated Joanna’s stout. ‘We’ll go when you’re ready.’
The small office that had recorded every birth and death in the village of Rosscarbery for the past one hundred and fifty years did not seem to have changed much in that time, apart from the harsh strip light illuminating the bog-oak desk.
Fergal busied himself in the back room, searching for the records from the turn of the century. ‘Right now, you take the births, I’ll take the deaths.’
‘Okay.’
They sat on each side of the desk, silently going through each entry. Joanna found a Fionnuala and a Kathleen O’Connell, but not a single boy born of that surname between 1897 and 1905.
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘No, not a thing. I have found Niamh Deasy – the girl that died – though. She was registered as dead on the second of January 1927. But there’s no note that her baby died with her, so let’s see if someone else registered the baby’s birth.’
Fergal went to fetch another ancient, leather-bound book and they both pored over the yellowing pages of births together.
‘Nothing.’ Fergal shut the book and a fug of dust flew into the air, making Joanna sneeze violently. ‘Maybe the baby was a myth after all. Are you sure now that Michael O’Connell was born here in Rosscarbery? Each townland or district kept their own records, you see. He could have been born a few miles up the road, in Clonakilty for example, or Skibbereen, and his birth would be registered there.’
The Love Letter Page 29
