‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Peg replied sharply. Then she added in a quiet voice, ‘People who see ghosts see them because they want to see them. It’s that wanting that makes them see and hear things that aren’t there. Tricks of the mind. Mr Badger goes off after a speck of dust glinting in the light or a fly so small you can’t see it. Don’t be fooled by Oswald’s tales of fairies, Ireland’s gone to his head. I don’t want to hear such nonsense. Why don’t you go and find a book to read, there are plenty in the library next door.’
Ellen realized she had touched a nerve and she was sorry. She got up and wandered out, leaving her aunt and Oswald at their card table. She heard them talking in low voices as she walked down the corridor, then all was quiet in the little library except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock.
It was a small room with two walls of bookshelves, a window at the far end with a desk positioned in front of it, and on the adjacent wall a big open fireplace that was dark and cold. Rugs were laid over the carpet and a coffee table was placed in the middle of the room covered in haphazard piles of magazines and books. It smelt of the remains of smoke embedded in the curtains and fabrics. The floor creaked as Ellen walked over to the bookcase in search of something inspiring. She hadn’t imagined anyone lived in this day and age without a television. How did her aunt keep in touch with the world? She ran her eyes along the spines until she came across a title that appealed to her: Castles of Ireland. It wasn’t a novel but it didn’t matter. She flicked through it, reading the headings at the top of every page. It was a history of castles, some of them ruins, some intact, with beautiful glossy pictures. Her curiosity mounted. There was nothing she found more romantic than a ruin.
Chapter 3
The cockerel crowed at dawn, but Ellen was already awake. From her bedroom window she could see the lighthouse more clearly now. Part of its white outer shell remained, eerie in the feeble light of morning, but the blackened bones were exposed like the charred ribs of an old ship, exposed to the wind and gulls who dared venture there. She stood at the glass and stared at it for a long while. There was something compelling about the sight of neglect and it made her feel quite melancholy. It pulled at her in the same way ruined castles did, and she longed to know how the girl had died and why she had been there.
The sea was as smooth as satin, the rocks seemingly benign in the peace of the awakening earth. The silence was a novelty for Ellen, who was used to the noise of the city, but she felt it creeping over her, as soft as down, and for a moment she lost herself in the landscape. Her thoughts quietened, her head grew light, and she existed in the moment, sensing the infinite in the still, timeless panorama.
Then she heard the clatter of Peg in the kitchen downstairs, the scampering of paws and the grunting of the pig. The front door opened and Ellen watched her aunt leave the house with Bertie and Mr Badger, who sniffed the ground excitedly and cocked his leg against the fence. Peg strode across the field in a heavy brown coat and boots, a woolly hat pulled low over her forehead, a large black bucket in her gloved hand. She looked as if she could roll down the hill if she wanted to.
It was strange to think that Peg shared the same DNA as Ellen’s mother, who was slender, immaculately dressed and polished. Madeline Trawton had her hair blow-dried at a chic Chelsea hairdresser three times a week, and regular manicures and facials. Ellen didn’t imagine Aunt Peg had ever had a manicure, let alone a facial. She cut a solitary figure, slightly hunched, as round as a Christmas pudding, and Ellen was surprised to feel so fond of a woman she barely knew. She watched her counting sheep and then whistling loudly, her breath rising like smoke on the cold morning air. Ellen thought she was whistling for the dog, but a moment later a shaggy grey donkey trotted up over the lip of the hill. When he reached Peg, he thrust his nose into the bucket and let her stroke his head and ears affectionately. The sheep gathered around her too, until Mr Badger sprang into action, fending them away jealously. One sheep with a rather long neck resisted Mr Badger’s shepherding and pushed his soft, woolly body closer to Peg. Ellen thought he looked very strange until she realized that he wasn’t a sheep at all but a llama, and she smiled at the eccentricity of her aunt and wondered what her mother would make of her.
At the thought of her mother she moved away from the window and lifted her iPhone out of her handbag. She switched it on and waited for the messages to download. Her heart began to race and the anxiety she had felt in London returned to dispel the peace she had enjoyed only moments before. She began to sweat as the messages pinged in: texts, emails and onto the answering machine. News must have spread, she deduced. She glanced at them fearfully. William, her mother, her father who usually remained detached from domestic strife, Leonora and Lavinia, Emily and her large group of girlfriends, had all tried to get in touch with her one way or another. She felt a wave of panic. It was overwhelming. This is what she had escaped London to avoid: people, countless people, telling her how she should live her life. She wished they’d all go away.
With a rising sense of claustrophobia she hurriedly pulled on her jeans and sweater. She thrust her telephone into her back pocket and ran down the stairs, two steps at a time. Ignoring Peg’s row of rubber boots, she wriggled her feet into her leather ones and threw on her fake-fur jacket. Once she was outside, the cold air hit her face and burned her lungs, bringing her to her senses with a jolt. Why hadn’t she done this earlier, she asked herself crossly. She strode over the gravel and climbed the gate into the field where Peg was now talking to the llama.
‘Good morning,’ said her aunt when she saw her niece marching purposefully towards her. Then her face grew serious as she registered Ellen’s troubled expression. ‘Are you all right, pet?’
Ellen took a deep breath and shivered, ignoring the llama who studied her imperiously. ‘I’m going down to the sea,’ she stated, thrusting her hands into her pockets.
‘Now? Before breakfast?’
‘I feel like a bracing walk.’
Peg frowned. She knew fear when she saw it. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Ellen smiled weakly.
‘What would you like to eat when you get back: eggs and bacon, porridge?’
‘I’ve never had porridge. I usually have fruit. Mother insists I don’t eat too much in case I bulk up . . .’ She was about to add, ‘before my wedding’, but stopped short. Peg frowned, as if she were speaking a foreign language.
‘Jaysus, child, you need to eat! Look at you, there’s nothing on your bones. Your mother’s out of her mind. I’ll make you porridge with honey and a little banana and you’ll be a different person.’
Ellen swallowed back tears. She wanted so badly to be a different person.
Peg looked down at the girl’s feet. ‘Are you sure you want to ruin those good boots of yours?’
‘I don’t care.’ Ellen turned away. ‘Leather’s hard-wearing, and frankly, I really couldn’t give a monkey’s. I’ll be back shortly.’ The sheep parted and she set off down the hill at a brisk pace. Peg stood a moment and watched her, hands on hips, a frown lining her brow beneath her hat.
The faster Ellen walked the better she felt. The air was bracing and her cheeks grew red and hot. She reached the lane and crossed it, taking a path that cut through the long grass down to the sea. An abandoned stone cottage stood forlornly beside the damaged remains of a fence. Shrubs and weeds flourished on its roof and seeded themselves in the gaps between the stones in the walls. In time it would return to the ground it came from and the waves would wash it away. One day everything would be gone, she thought philosophically, because nothing material lasts. That’s why I have to live the life I want to live, because one day I’ll be gone, too.
Right now, the tide was far out, leaving a wide beach of pale-yellow sand. Black rocks were scattered here and there, like sleeping seals, and white gulls hopped about the shallow pools in search of food. The wind swept through the abandoned lighthouse like ghosts playing among old bones, and
she took a deep breath, right into the bottom of her lungs. As she exhaled she felt the tension slip away and her shoulders drop. The vision of endless sea and sky lifted the heaviness that weighed upon her chest and she felt a wonderful sense of relief. She walked over the sand, not caring that her expensive boots were getting wet, and marched on towards the ocean. As she neared the water the roar of the sea grew louder. It was a pleasant sound, nothing like the roar of traffic, and she inhaled the salty air hungrily. The wind whipped her hair and the damp curled it so that chestnut-coloured tendrils bounced down her back and across her face. Without a moment’s regret, she pulled her iPhone out of her jeans’ pocket and threw it as far out to sea as she could. It landed with a plop and disappeared.
With that she felt an immense sense of freedom. Gone were the harassing messages. Gone was all contact with London. It was as if she had thrown her mother and William, her sisters and friends – in fact, her entire life – into the water. They had all sunk with that telephone and there she was, standing alone on an empty beach, liberated at last from duty, responsibility and the dreadful mould that had imprisoned her. She had crossed a bridge and destroyed it in her wake. Now, she could be anyone she wanted to be. She smiled with satisfaction and let the wind take her past. Gazing out at the vast expanse of sea she realized the world was full of endless possibility.
She walked back up the beach with a bounce in her step, across the lane and up the hill where the sheep were quietly grazing and the donkey was standing alone, staring out to sea. When the house came into view she saw a few cars parked on the gravel next to Peg’s dirty Volvo. They were as old and muddy as hers. She wondered who had come to visit so early in the morning.
As she opened the door, the smell of bacon hit her in a warm fug. Mr Badger came bounding into the hall. She patted him then took off her jacket and boots. The leather was stained on the toes where the water had soaked it but she didn’t mind. The boots belonged to the life she was now sure she didn’t want. Voices resounded from the kitchen, most notably deep, male voices. She wandered in shyly.
‘Ah, there you are, pet. Come and meet your family.’ Peg beamed at her happily. There, sitting around the table, hugging mugs of tea, were four men as old as Peg and one younger man, closer to her own age. Ellen stared at them in astonishment. ‘These are your uncles: Johnny, Desmond, Ryan and Craic, and that’s Joe, Johnny’s boy.’ None of them stood up to greet her, but they all took off their caps. The curiosity in their eyes was as ill-disguised as hunger in the eyes of wolves. ‘I’m afraid when they heard you were coming they all wanted to be the first to get a good look at you,’ Peg added.
This is my family, Ellen thought incredulously as she stood gazing at the gruff, hairy men as if they were another species. At first glance, they didn’t look anything like her mother. Could they really share the same blood? She made a conscious effort to collect herself and extended her hand politely. Boarding school had trained her to hide her feelings. She could always find refuge in good manners when an unfamiliar situation threatened to unbalance her. ‘So you’re Mum’s brothers?’ she said. One by one they shook her hand, repeating their names, gazing up at her as if they, too, were struggling to find their own features reflected in hers.
‘I’m Desmond and I’m the oldest Byrne,’ the first said with an air of importance. ‘My wife, Alanna, wanted to come too but she had to get to work, so you’ll meet her later.’
‘I look forward to meeting her,’ Ellen replied, finding Desmond’s dark looks intimidating. He was the biggest of them all, with a large barrel chest, solid, muscular shoulders and a short, thick neck. His hair was black and wiry, speckled with grey, and a woolly black beard covered a wide and serious face. He looked like the sort of man capable of knocking a person down with a mere flick of his fingers.
‘And I’m Johnny, and this is my boy, Joe,’ interjected the smaller man beside him. Like Desmond, Johnny had deep-set blue eyes, but the expression in them was kinder and more sensitive than his brother’s. He also wore a beard but the hair looked soft and covered less of his face, and unlike Desmond, who was blessed with a thatch of hair, Johnny was balding.
‘Hi,’ said Johnny’s son, Joe. His hand was warm, his grip strong, and Ellen almost gasped when her bones crunched beneath his fingers. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said and grinned crookedly. He was very handsome when he smiled, she thought, and she imagined his father must have been handsome like him when he was young, for they were very similar, except for Joe’s eyes, which were a rich moss green.
‘Doesn’t know his own strength, that boy,’ said Ryan, shaking his auburn hair in mock disdain. ‘I apologize for my nephew; he’s all brawn and no brains!’ He laughed and his teeth were yellowed and crooked. ‘This is how it’s done, boy,’ he said to Joe, and he shook her hand gently. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ellen. I’m Ryan.’
‘Hello, Ryan.’ She laughed, finding his hand warm and soft, like dough.
‘And I’m Craic,’ said the last, and there was a diffidence in his pale-grey eyes and a fairness in his colouring that he did not share with his brothers. Of all her uncles, he was the one who looked most like her mother, and Ellen smiled at him genially, reassured to discover something familiar in the unfamiliar faces staring back at her. But in spite of that similarity, they were worlds apart. The men’s Irish accents were strong, their hands big and rough. Ellen thought of her father’s soft skin and clean nails. His were the hands of a man who worked in a plush office in Mayfair and enjoyed long lunches with his friends at White’s. Her uncles’ hands reminded her of the builders who were constantly working on the house in Eaton Court, satisfying her mother’s insatiable demands – or her need to avoid boredom at any cost.
‘Come and take a seat, pet. I’ve got porridge for you, and tea.’ Jack perched on the back of Ryan’s chair at the head of the table. Her uncle didn’t seem to notice him there, or he was so used to his sister’s irregular residents that he ignored him as one would a chair or a teapot. Ellen took the empty seat at the foot of the table. Peg placed a bowl of porridge in front of her. She’d added a golden trail of honey in a spiral. It steamed seductively.
‘So what are you all having?’ Ellen asked, breaking the awkward silence. They were all staring at her as if she were an exotic animal Peg had rescued from a foreign country. ‘Aunt Peg has cooked you up a feast!’
‘Eggs and bacon for the boys,’ said Peg, pouring tea into her mug. ‘Tuck in, pet. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’
‘Do you get breakfast here every morning?’ She directed her question at Joe because he was her age and the least scary.
He grinned and his dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Not likely. A cup of tea is usually all that’s on the menu. Isn’t that right, Peggine?’
She smacked him playfully on the head. He had thick, glossy black hair and a long, cheeky face. Ellen noticed the affection in his eyes when he looked at his aunt.
‘Peg won’t come to the boozer so we have to come here,’ Johnny added with a grin.
‘Why won’t you go to the pub, Aunt Peg?’ Ellen asked.
‘Too many people,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘Peg’s kitchen is a fine place to chinwag after a long day’s work,’ Johnny interjected kindly. ‘She makes a strong cup of tea!’
‘I’m the landlord of the pub,’ interjected Craic. ‘But I don’t take it personally,’ he added, winking at his sister.
‘You own the Pot of Gold?’ Ellen repeated, impressed. She had never met a publican before.
‘I do, for my sins.’
Desmond raised his mug of tea and grinned lopsidedly. ‘Practice makes perfect, there’s many do think, but a man’s not too perfect when he’s practised at drink.’
‘Who wrote that?’ Ellen asked.
‘I don’t know, but he was Irish for sure!’ They all laughed heartily. The awkwardness lifted and they all began to speak at once, their voices low and growly like bears. Peg fussed over them, making more
toast and pouring more tea, and Ellen remembered the solitary figure she had been in the field, so far removed from the jovial hostess she was now, buzzing about her kitchen busily, her face aglow with pleasure.
Ellen had never known a big family. Her father, Anthony, came from an aristocratic Norfolk family who had owned the large and beautiful estate of Hardingham Hall for over four hundred years. When Anthony’s father died, his elder brother, Robert, inherited the family seat and the title of Marquis of Zelden. Robert’s son George duly took up the earldom and Anthony, Ellen’s father, was left as simply Lord Anthony Trawton. His sister, Anne, had married a Scotsman and had gone to live in Edinburgh, and Anthony, of course, had settled in London. Being a rather chilly family, they spent little time together beyond the traditional Christmas gathering up at Hardingham Hall, where they’d all put on a great show of family unity, parade at the local church and promise to make more effort to see each other the following year. They never did. Ellen sat in the midst of her newfound relations, trying to understand their cheerful banter, marvelling at the world her mother had chosen to hide away, and wishing she had always been part of it.
‘I’d like to have a drink with you tonight in the Pot of Gold,’ Ellen suggested, finishing the last spoonful of porridge with regret. ‘I’ve never been in a proper Irish pub.’
‘Well, you’ve missed out then, haven’t you?’ said Johnny.
‘I’ll come and get you,’ Joe offered.
‘You’ll meet the lot of us, then,’ Johnny added.
‘But are you ready for the lot of us?’ interjected Ryan, shaking his curly red head.
‘I’m ready now, aren’t I? And there are a lot of you here.’ She laughed.
‘You’ll be just grand, pet,’ Peg reassured her, patting her shoulder as she leaned down to take her empty porridge bowl away. ‘You see, porridge was all you needed to put the colour back in your cheeks.’
Secrets of the Lighthouse Page 5
