‘I think she was afraid of Mr Macausland,’ Johnny says darkly, nodding to himself as if that fear of my husband is the answer to everything. ‘Because whenever he was down, she was never around. She wouldn’t come to the pub any more and she wouldn’t be seen in town either.’
‘Those who saw her in the schoolyard said she became nervous and withdrawn when he was home. Nothing like the carefree girl she was when he was away.’ Joe is pleased to have more gossip to relate.
‘I wonder why that was?’ Ellen murmurs.
‘Ah, he’s a demanding man, is Mr Macausland,’ Johnny explains. ‘I know that her heart was here in Connemara. She was a country girl, all right. She hated the city. She told me as much herself. She’d come and help with the gardening and grumble about having to go to Dublin when she’d rather be down here. They had some big fights. I think Mr Macausland wanted the children educated up there, but she insisted they live down here. She won that battle. I think she won most battles in the end. Mr Macausland gave in, probably for an easy life, and disappeared up to Dublin as often as he could. The marriage stank like sour milk.’
‘As soon as she died, Mr Macausland took the children up to Dublin,’ says Joe, in a tone that suggests this is of great significance. ‘They don’t come down much and when they do, Mr Macausland looks miserable.’
‘He does indeed,’ Johnny agrees. ‘Like the life has been knocked out of him.’
‘But he can’t stay away, can he?’ says Joe. ‘I mean, he could sell the place, couldn’t he? But he doesn’t. Why’s that, then?’ Both men shrug and shake their heads.
They reach the front of the castle. Ellen takes in the towers and turrets and her face is full of wonder, as mine was when I saw it for the first time. The magnificence of the place takes your breath away, even on a cold February morning when the walls are damp and the trees are naked and twisted like arthritic old men.
Johnny pulls the key out of his pocket and pushes it into the lock. I follow them inside. I wish there was a fire in the hall grate, and furniture and rugs so that this stranger could know how lovely my castle used to be. But stripped of everything that gave her life, she is now left alone with her memories, sad and forlorn like me. It is almost colder inside than out and the air has the stale, musty quality of a cathedral. I want to open the windows but they are boarded up with wood. Ellen feels the sorrow there, I can tell, because she puts her hands in her pockets and barely speaks. She wanders over to my portrait, a splash of colour on the colourless walls, and gazes up. Her jaw slackens and she lets out a slow gasp.
I stare down at her through the eyes of the painting. We are gazing at each other. She is fixed on me and I am fixed on her, and she is seeing me. Yes, she is seeing me as if I am living. I hold her like a fish on a hook, and there is no getting away. Johnny and Joe come and stand quietly beside her, and look up at me as they have done so many times over the last five years, trying to make sense of my death. Johnny takes off his cap in reverence and Joe has no joke to crack. They all admire me in silence. Johnny’s cheeks flush, for he loves me; Joe sees life in the portrait that he hasn’t seen before; and Ellen, well, besides my beauty she is affected by my tragedy. A collective shiver ripples over them and I suddenly feel I am no longer alone. While I am in this painting, I can almost pretend I am alive.
At last the silence is broken. ‘In that green dress she looks like an old-fashioned movie star,’ Ellen whispers.
‘She was an old-fashioned girl,’ Johnny agrees sadly. ‘She wasn’t made for the modern world.’
‘Her skin looks translucent, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s flawless. How old was she when she died?’
‘Thirty-four,’ Johnny says flatly. ‘She was but a girl. Left two small children who’ll grow up with barely a memory of their beautiful ma.’
‘Don’t you think it looks like she’s staring back at us?’ Joe says nervously.
‘Yes, it does,’ Ellen agrees. ‘It looks like she’s real.’
‘It creeps me out altogether,’ says Joe, moving away. ‘I think this place is haunted. I’ll see you both outside.’ And he leaves.
I am triumphant. Joe knows I am still here. He can feel it in his bones. As for Ellen, this lovely stranger who I hold captive with my eyes, she senses it, too. I’m sure of it. She gazes at me for a long, long time, questions tottering on the end of her tongue. And as she gazes, I can read her mind as clearly as if she were speaking out loud. Why did you die, Caitlin? Who was the person rowing away in the middle of the night? Why was he there? What were you doing on the island in the first place? What did you do there, Caitlin? Tell me, what were you doing all alone in a deserted lighthouse?
‘Where is she now, Johnny?’ Ellen asks softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, where is she? Do you think she’s here?’
Johnny is a man who believes in life and death as two distinct states, as separate as night and day. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you mean. She’s with the Lord now, Ellen,’ he replies.
But Ellen stares boldly into my eyes and feels my presence beyond the oils and canvas. I’m not so sure, she thinks, and I know then that my hope of communication now rests with her.
Chapter 5
Ellen joined Joe outside. He was hunched in the cold, inhaling the last few drags of a cigarette. When he saw her he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth and shook his head. ‘That portrait gives me the creeps,’ he said. ‘Want a smoke?’ He pulled the packet out of his pocket.
She hesitated a moment, then relented. ‘Just one.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think she was very beautiful,’ Ellen replied. She placed the cigarette between her lips and lit it with the glowing butt that Joe held out for her.
‘She was a bit witchy, if you want to know what I really think. Dad won’t hear a word against her, as you can see.’
‘So what do you think really happened on the island that night?’
Joe lowered his voice and glanced uneasily at the door. ‘I don’t think Mr Macausland killed her, but he certainly drove her to her death one way or another.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They were at each other’s throats, as far as I could tell. She used to yell at him and he’d yell back. Mr Macausland has quite a temper on him.’ He exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Put it this way, if he hadn’t been on the island that night, she’d still be alive today.’
They both fell silent as Johnny emerged from the castle and locked the door behind him. ‘Besides the painting there’s not much to look at inside,’ he said, joining them on the gravel.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Ellen.
‘Don’t blame you. It’s haunted in there.’ Joe tossed his cigarette onto the ground and squashed it beneath his boot. ‘Jaysus, it sends the shivers down me looking at that portrait.’
‘Don’t be a sap!’ Johnny chuckled.
Joe turned to Ellen. ‘She looked like she was about to step out of the fecking painting.’ He laughed nervously.
‘I agree with you, Joe. I’ve never seen a more realistic portrait in my life. She was looking right at me.’
‘Let’s go and have a jar,’ Johnny suggested. ‘Let’s introduce Ellen to the Pot of Gold. We can have a good old blather out of the cold.’
The three of them climbed into the front seat of Johnny’s red truck. ‘It’s a shame no one’s living in the castle now,’ Ellen mused as Johnny drove beneath the latticed arch of burr oaks.
‘It was a grand place before we stripped it bare,’ Johnny agreed.
‘Will they ever move back?’
‘Doubtful,’ said Joe. ‘Too many memories for Mr Macausland, I imagine.’
‘You think he’ll sell it in the end?’
‘No, he’ll pass it on to his boy, Finbar, when he’s old enough to live there,’ said Johnny.
‘Poor children,’ Ellen murmured. ‘They lost their mother and their home.’
She gazed out at the
wintry landscape that was now bathed in sunlight. Rugged fields stretched out to the left and right, divided by low stone walls, crumbling in parts from neglect. A flock of shiny black crows fought over the carcass of some unfortunate creature, their loud caws cutting into the air like shards of ice. There was something ominous about the sight of them, as if death pervaded the castle grounds. As the truck pulled out into the lane, Ellen was pleased to be leaving.
‘So, do you think you got some inspiration for your book?’ Joe asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively. ‘You could write one hell of a good ghost story.’
‘I’m not sure I’d want to go back to that castle to do the research,’ she replied. ‘How do you manage to work there every day?’
‘I don’t go inside,’ Joe answered simply. ‘But sometimes, when I’m in the garden, I feel as if I’m being watched.’
Johnny rolled his eyes. ‘Jaysus! Will you listen to the two of you?’
‘I swear that place is haunted,’ Joe retorted firmly. ‘Maybe that’s why Mr Macausland never sets foot across the threshold; he’s afraid she’ll get her revenge!’
‘Don’t be a gobshite, Joe,’ Johnny growled into his beard. ‘He doesn’t set foot across the threshold because his fecking heart is bleeding and that’s the truth.’ With that, Joe was silenced. They drove up the lanes into Ballymaldoon without saying another word.
The Pot of Gold was positioned on the main street, painted as red as bull’s blood with the name emblazoned in heavy gold lettering along the top. Johnny parked his truck in the car park behind and they walked round together. ‘Welcome to my second home,’ said Johnny. The thought of a pint and a hearty meal had transformed his face into a wide smile.
‘Second home, Dad?’ quipped Joe.
‘Quit codding about, lad,’ his father shot back, but his eyes twinkled with merry anticipation as he pushed open the door.
Ellen followed them inside, where it was warm and stuffy. The smell of old cigarettes was ingrained in the carpets and upholstery from before smoking in public places was banned. There was a pleasant fire at one end and the walls were covered with prints, cartoons and other paraphernalia. She recognized Johnny’s brother Craic at once. He stood behind the bar, grinning at them. There was something in his smile that reminded her of her mother. Ellen felt a momentary stab of guilt, but it was gone before she was able to brood over it.
‘You’re a bit early,’ Craic said to his brother. ‘Suppose you’re using Ellen as the excuse not to work.’
‘I’m too old and knackered to need an excuse,’ Johnny replied, leaning on the bar like a big liner docking into its habitual berth. ‘What’s your poison, Ellen?’
‘I suppose I’d better have a Guinness.’
Johnny was pleased. ‘She’s a Byrne, all right.’ He chuckled. Craic put a fat-bellied glass beneath the tap and began to fill it with stout. Ellen tried not to grimace. She’d have rather asked for a Coke, but she was a little frightened of Johnny and thought he’d like her more if she ordered a Guinness. Craic placed it on the bar in front of her. The creamy head looked appealing, at least. She wanted to scoop a bit up with her finger and taste it first, but Johnny and Craic were watching her enthusiastically. She was left no alternative but to put it to her lips. It was strong and bitter and more disgusting than anything she had ever drunk in her life. She swallowed with feigned relish. Her performance was convincing enough. Craic filled a couple more glasses for Johnny and Joe and then began to talk about things of which she knew nothing. She wondered whether she’d give herself away by asking for a glass of water. The stout was burning her throat.
They took their drinks and sat at a table in the corner so that Ellen had a clear view of the locals coming into the pub. She realized pretty swiftly that they had a clear view of her, too. Everyone who entered came straight up to talk to Johnny, as if he were hosting some sort of private party, but they never took their inquisitive eyes off her.
‘Word has got out that Maddie’s daughter is in town,’ Joe whispered to Ellen. ‘I’m afraid they’re all coming in to have a look at you.’
‘If I’d known, I would have made more of an effort with my appearance,’ she replied, feeling painfully conspicuous. ‘I’m like an animal in a zoo.’
‘We don’t get many newcomers here, but you’re more than a curiosity, I’m afraid. Your mother was notorious.’
‘So, tell me, what happened? Why hasn’t she spoken to her family for so long?’
Joe shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask Peg. I’m not good at family history.’ He took a swig of Guinness, leaving a line of cream on his upper lip. ‘I only knew of your existence this morning.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me at all. I asked Peg and she told me to ask my mother. But Mum’s never spoken about it, ever. I thought her only sibling was Peg. I never knew she had four brothers as well. I never knew I had cousins. It’s like none of you existed.’
He shook his head mournfully. ‘That must have broken Grandmam’s heart.’
‘What was she like, our grandmother?’
Joe beamed a devilishly handsome smile. ‘She was a right character, God bless her. She was only tiny and yet she raised six children all on her own. It can’t have been easy as the farm didn’t make much money, but she had a strong faith and somehow she managed. Father Michael’s her first cousin and he came for lunch every Sunday come rain or shine. You know, she wore black for my grandfather until the day she died. As long as I knew her I never saw her wearing anything else. It made her look hard, but she had a soft centre, all right. She could knock back a pint with the best of us and box your ears for being an eejit, but if you were in trouble or unhappy or anything, she would sort you out. She’d kill anyone who threatened her family. Family was everything to her. That’s why it must have broken her heart when your mam left and never came back. She never spoke of it, though. She wasn’t a complainer.’
‘What did Mum do?’ Ellen bit her lip, trying to think of a good enough reason for her mother to abandon her family. ‘Do you think she did something really bad?’ Ellen lowered her voice. ‘Something so bad that no one’s willing to talk about it, not even her?’
At that moment their attention was diverted by the door, which opened with a sudden thrust, giving way to a cold gust of wind and the dark presence of a man. He strode into the pub in a black beanie hat pulled low over his forehead and a heavy black coat, and swept his eyes over the room, settling them on Ellen like a missile locking onto its target. Ellen flinched. His eyes had a touch of madness in them.
‘God, who’s that?’ she hissed to Joe.
‘That’s Dylan Murphy,’ he replied, in a tone that suggested notoriety. ‘And he’s coming over to meet you.’
‘Does he bite?’ She glanced at Johnny, who began to scratch his beard nervously.
Joe laughed. ‘No, he’s just off his nut. Hello, Dylan!’
Dylan took the chair opposite Ellen without waiting to be invited. He shrugged off his coat and sat down, greeting Johnny and Joe as if he had seen them only minutes before. ‘So, you’re Maddie’s girl, are you?’ he asked, gazing at her across the table with brown eyes the colour of Connemara peat.
‘Yes, Ellen, how do you do?’
He stared at her more intensely. ‘You know that’s a name out of a novel, don’t you?’ he said.
Ellen laughed nervously. ‘Well, I know it means “bright light” in Greek.’
‘It’s a beautiful character from the novel The Age of Innocence, by an American author called Edith Wharton. Ellen Olenska, the infamous Countess Olenska.’ He inhaled through his nose, savouring the sound of it, then repeated it with a swing in his voice as if the name were notes rising and falling. ‘Countess Olenska.’
‘Are you joining us for dinner?’ Johnny asked. For a moment, Ellen assumed they were talking about the evening meal, until it became apparent by the context that ‘dinner’ meant lunch. The three men discussed food for a few minutes. The pub had filled up with fishermen in heavy jerseys
and Ellen recognized the dog she had seen the day before. He wandered over to the fire as if it had been lit especially for him.
‘I’ll go and put in our orders,’ Joe suggested. ‘What do you want, Ellen Olenska?’ he asked, with emphasis on her new nickname.
She ignored the mischievous curl to his lips. ‘I’ll have lamb stew. Will you get me a glass of water as well?’
‘You’re not a Guinness girl, really, are you?’
‘Oh . . . I . . .’
‘Doesn’t matter, Ellen. If water’s your poison, fair play to you.’ She shifted her gaze to Johnny, but he wasn’t listening. He was leaning towards Dylan, with an angry look on his face, speaking in a hushed voice so she couldn’t hear. She stared into her Guinness, uncomfortable beneath the weight of the many pairs of eyes watching her from all corners of the pub.
‘So, how do you like Ballymaldoon?’ Dylan asked, and the change in his tone suggested that Johnny had told him off for being rude.
‘I haven’t seen much of it yet, but what I have seen is lovely.’
‘Good.’ There followed an awkward pause. The fighting spirit with which he had entered was now snuffed out, leaving him strangely deflated. He gazed at her with troubled eyes, as if searching her features for the answer to some unspoken question.
‘We’ve just been up to the castle,’ she said, desperate to fill the silence, and wishing he’d take those crazy eyes off her. ‘It’s a sad place now there’s nothing in it.’
‘I showed her the portrait,’ Johnny interjected. ‘You should have heard the two of them carrying on about ghosts!’
Dylan seemed relieved to have something to talk about, and his gaze softened on her face. ‘Johnny’s an old cynic,’ he said, and his mouth twitched at the corners. ‘He only believes in what he can see.’
‘I’m not saying there aren’t ghosts; I’m just saying that Caitlin Macausland isn’t one. If you ask Joe, he’ll tell you she’s in the garden making sure he’s not pulling out the good stuff. What a load of rubbish!’
Secrets of the Lighthouse Page 7
