‘I didn’t realize how much I’d dig up by coming to Ireland. I never knew she had such a big family and I never knew she had run away from them, or from you. She completely reinvented herself. What’s she going to say when she finds out that I’m here and that I know the truth?’
‘That it’s none of your business?’
‘Yes, that’s probably true. But it is my business: well, the family stuff at least.’
At that moment he turned his heavy eyes on her. She felt the weight of them, as if he were about to divulge something important. She looked back at him anxiously. But he thought better of it and said nothing, settling his eyes back onto the pavement again.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t tell her,’ Ellen added to smooth over the awkward moment.
‘You’ll have to tell her eventually, Ellen Olenska. You can’t open Pandora’s box then pretend you never did.’
‘I’m scared.’ But without telling him the whole truth he couldn’t imagine what she was scared of. He touched her arm and she was taken aback by the natural affection with which he gently squeezed it.
‘The Maddie I knew had a big and generous heart. She might have been wilful and a little wild, but she had a great capacity for love. She’ll forgive you.’
‘Maybe I can convince her to come over and make it up with her family. I can be the catalyst that brings everyone together.’
He chuckled cynically. ‘I think you’ll find it’s a great deal more complicated than you imagine.’
‘No, it isn’t. What’s done is done. It’s all in the past. Blood is thicker than water.’
‘You’re very young, Ellen Olenska, and I admire you for being bold, but I’d let sleeping dogs lie. You might wake them up and get bitten.’
They reached the grocery shop. Dylan helped her find the bottle of Jameson and the Barry’s tea that were on Peg’s list. Then he pulled a bottle of sloe gin off the shelf and showed it to her with a mischievous grin. ‘Father Michael’s own brew!’
‘You can’t be serious? Your priest makes gin?’
‘That’s Ireland for you. It’s powerful stuff, too.’ He laughed. ‘He only sells it locally and he’s getting on a bit now, but he justifies the business by putting all the money into the church. I think it was the gin that repaired the church spire.’
‘What an entrepreneur! And all for a good cause.’ She remembered Alanna telling her that Peg and the priest had fallen out. ‘So, what’s he like, Father Michael?’
‘He’s a good man altogether, a little overbearing perhaps. Likes the sound of his own voice, but don’t they all? I’ve never met a reticent priest!’ He chuckled.
‘Do you still write music, Dylan?’ she asked.
He looked surprised. ‘So, Peg’s told you all about me, has she?’
‘She can even hum your tunes.’
He chuckled. ‘Anything else you need to buy, Ellen Olenska?’
‘I don’t think Peg will want any sloe gin.’
‘Not this brew, anyhow.’
‘Do you still write?’
He gazed at her and narrowed his eyes. ‘A little here and there.’
‘I bet it’s good.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m a bad judge of my own work.’
‘I’d like to hear it,’ she said, following him up to the counter. ‘But I wouldn’t presume to judge it.’
He smiled, and once again she was surprised by the sweetness in it. ‘You’re a good girl, Ellen Olenska,’ he said, but he didn’t offer to share his music. ‘Right, let’s go and pay and I’ll get me some tobacco.’
Ellen drove back to Peg’s with a warm feeling towards Dylan, where before she had simply felt uneasy. They had parted down by the harbour and he had waved as she drove off. She wondered what her mother would make of him now. He was still handsome. In fact, the more she got to know him the handsomer he became. He had a profound intelligence in his eyes, and when he smiled they lost their madness and his whole face softened quite unexpectedly. She could almost imagine what he had been like as a young man, in love with her mother. He would have been leaner and less hairy, of course, and his exuberance wouldn’t have been soured by disappointment or his joy dampened by sorrow. He would have been mischievous and outspoken, she imagined, rather like Joe. She really could envisage him singing in a band and writing poetry because he was clearly a deep-thinking, sensitive man. He had mentioned love in a way that her father had never been able to do, being so English and emotionally repressed. Dylan and her father were as different as a bear and a trout; her mother had traded passion for security, of that she had no doubt.
When she arrived back at Peg’s, her aunt was in the garden behind the house, cutting back shrubs with a large pair of secateurs. When she saw her niece she smiled warmly. ‘Did you get what you need for the nails, pet?’ she asked.
‘I got everything and I bumped into Dylan.’
Peg resumed her cutting. ‘Weaving his way down the pavement, no doubt.’
‘Actually, he was perfectly sober.’
‘Well, that’s a first.’
‘He was in a suit and tie.’
‘Jaysus, on a weekday? What’s got into him all of a sudden?’
‘He looked rather dapper.’
Peg laughed throatily. ‘That’s a word I’d never use in the same sentence with Dylan Murphy!’
‘Everyone knows we’re going to see Conor.’
‘Of course they do. Everyone always knows everything around here. If you want to keep a secret . . .’
‘Tell it to the fish,’ Ellen finished her sentence for her.
‘Exactly.’ Peg crossed the lawn. ‘Are you hungry? Shall we have something to eat? What do you fancy?’
Ellen was almost too nervous about seeing Conor again to eat but she followed her aunt into the house and helped her prepare lunch. Potatoes seemed to be at the heart of all Peg’s meals, boiled with their skins on and always on a plate in the centre of the table with butter. Ellen laid the table, watched by Jack whose beady eyes followed her around the kitchen. Bertie lay in front of the stove, stretched out in blissful slumber, while Mr Badger kept coming in and out through the kitchen door, as if he wasn’t sure where he wanted to settle.
‘Dylan told me I look like Mother,’ said Ellen, pouring them both a cup of tea.
‘So, he’s finally mentioned her, has he?’
‘Yes, I think he wants to talk about her.’
Peg drained the spuds and put them on the table. ‘He should have moved on years ago, married and raised a family, not pined for Maddie.’
‘I feel sorry for him.’
‘Aye, there’s a lot to feel sorry about, all right,’ Peg agreed. ‘Life’s current takes most of us downstream, but some, like Dylan, are left behind among the weeds.’
‘I wonder what Mum would think if she saw him now.’
Peg inhaled deeply through her nostrils. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’ She changed the subject quite deliberately. ‘Did you get anything written yesterday?’
‘Not really,’ Ellen replied, then added hastily, ‘I was mulling around a few ideas. I have to work out a really good plot before I begin to write.’
‘I see.’ They sat down and began to eat. ‘Don’t you think you should call your mother to let her know that you’re all right?’
‘I threw my iPhone into the sea.’
‘Well, that was a silly thing to do. I imagine those telephones are very dear.’ She scrutinized her niece through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you want to use my telephone?’
‘Mum won’t be worrying,’ Ellen replied, but even as she said it she knew she didn’t sound convincing.
‘You know, it doesn’t matter how old you are, or how independent, you’re still your mother’s daughter and she’ll be worrying about you, especially if you’ve gone and told her a whole pack of lies.’
Ellen put down her knife and fork and cupped her mug of tea. ‘OK, you’re right about the lies. I came here because I wanted to get away from her and I knew
this was the one place she wouldn’t come looking for me.’
Peg smiled kindly. ‘I thought so. Still, you could get a message to her through a friend or one of your sisters if you don’t want to speak to her directly. Whatever your differences, she’s still your mam and you ought to let her know you’re OK from time to time. That’s the deal, all right? You can stay here as long as you want, but you mustn’t leave her to worry.’
‘OK, I’ll call Emily. She’s the only person who knows where I am.’
‘Good girl. I knew you’d see sense.’
Peg helped herself to another spud and began to peel it in silence. She didn’t ask why Ellen wanted to run away from her mother: she didn’t have to, for no sooner had her niece revealed that she didn’t want her mother to find her, than all her grievances came pouring out in a rush of accusation and complaint – all except William. Ellen was too ashamed to mention that she was engaged to be married not five months from today.
When Ellen had finished, Peg touched her hand gently and said only a few wise words: ‘Don’t go repeating the mistakes your mother made, pet. Life is precious and short.’ Then she stood up and cleared away the plates. Ellen felt better for having shared her thoughts and although her aunt didn’t get involved in a lengthy discussion, she knew she was a sympathetic ear.
Peg washed the dishes while Ellen dried, then she fed Mr Badger and Bertie from the various sacks kept out in the larder. She had a habit of running her hand down the pig’s spine a few times every day. When Ellen asked why, she explained that if she could feel the bones clearly he was too thin and if she couldn’t feel them at all, he was too fat. ‘ We don’t want an overweight or underweight Bertie, do we now?’ Peg laughed, tickling him behind the ears and making him squeal with delight. Mr Badger trotted over jealously and thrust his nose beneath her armpit, demanding his share of attention. Peg had to pat them both at once and found herself pulled onto the beanbag until she was lying on her back with both animals on top of her.
‘Be a good girl, Ellen, and go up to my bedroom and open the bottom drawer of the chest against the right-hand wall. You’ll find an old bound book in there. Be a love and bring it down.’
‘What is it?’
‘Pictures of your mother as a little girl.’
Ellen’s face brightened. ‘I’d love to see those.’ And she hurried from the kitchen, bounding up the stairs two steps at a time.
Peg’s room smelt of talcum powder and violets. It was simply decorated with pink rose wallpaper and curtains, and very tidy. The window looked out onto the ocean where the lighthouse stood defiantly against the wind and rain, stubbornly refusing to be ignored, as if daring Ellen to uncover its secrets.
Her eyes wandered to the bedside table where a silver-framed photograph of a little girl in a pretty white dress with long black hair and a wide, carefree smile was placed beside a flickering votive candle and a statue of the Madonna. Ellen crept over to take a closer look. She knelt down and saw two patches of worn carpet beneath her knees where Peg must so often kneel in prayer. A lump formed in her throat as she stared into the face of the child Peg had lost to the sea. As she did so a small gust of wind blew in from somewhere and snuffed out the flame quite suddenly. Ellen sat up with a start. Had she blown it out with her breath? Surely not – she wasn’t close enough, and a flame like that would require a more determined blow. She looked about in panic. Where were the matches so she could light it again? Aware that Peg might start to wonder what she was doing in her bedroom, she hurried over to the chest of drawers and pulled out the album. Before leaving she turned back to look at the candle once more, baffled by the strange extinguishing of so hearty a flame. A thread of smoke rose from the wick before dispersing into the air. She glanced at the window. It was closed.
Chapter 11
I am no longer alone. Although the little girl does not talk to me, I know that she is aware of my presence. I think she must be an angel because she is bright and golden as if she is made of sunbeams, while I am dark like a shadow and bound to the earth. But she smiles at me when I catch her eye and I smile back. I wonder whether she sees the desperation in my gaze. I try not to let it show.
I know now that the child I saw on the island was not a gull swooping low, but this little ray of light who seems to enjoy playing with the birds and in the ruin as if she were a normal child, propelled by curiosity. She is full of joy; in fact, I would say that light and joy are synonymous, for that is what she is made of, while I am as flawed as I was when I was living, only more unhappy in my solitude.
Yet my existence is suddenly getting more interesting now that Conor has set his sights on this girl from London. She is pretty with lustrous dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes. Her skin is smooth and radiant and her nose is scattered with small freckles, but she is nothing special. Conor has always been attracted to women who stand out. I would not say that Ellen stands out, though I concede that there is a sweetness in her heart-shaped face, which is charming. Were I alive I most certainly wouldn’t feel threatened by her, but now that I am dead I am jealous of any woman who steps into Conor’s path, even though most have not lasted more than a night.
Conor is a widower of forty-four, and she is a fresh young woman of about thirty, so I am certain that my fears are unfounded, but still, I saw the interest in his eyes when he encountered her on the hill and I watched him go looking for her in the Pot of Gold. He must be very keen to have ventured in there, where he knew he would not be welcome. I saw the locals stunned into silence by his appearance and I heard the whispers as he made his way to the bar and ordered a pint. Craic pretended the sight of him at the bar was a normal occurrence and shared a bit of banter as he filled his glass with stout. I noticed Conor scanning the room for the girl, rubbing his beard anxiously as he searched the curious faces for hers, and I couldn’t fail to see the disappointment when he didn’t find her. With no friends to talk to, he sought refuge with Joe and Johnny, and I saw his face light up when they spoke about Ellen and agreed to pass on an invitation to paint Ida’s nails. I was not at all happy that he should use his own daughter as an excuse to invite the girl back to his house. I’m sure she will smile at the flimsy pretext, but she will go. Of course she will go – Conor has a strong allure. I know that better than anyone. To think I invested hope in her. I’m disappointed that she is not worthy of it. I’m disappointed that she has set her lustful eyes on my husband and will be of no use to me, after all.
But I don’t want her coming to paint Ida’s nails. I don’t want her stepping into my house again. I wish she’d disappear back to London and leave my family alone. But no, she comes with her aunt Peg and there is nothing I can do to stop her. She has applied make-up, for her lashes are thick and black and her lips are shiny with gloss. I can tell that she is nervous, for her fingers tremble as she lights a cigarette in the car and blows smoke out through the open window. I smile triumphantly at the thought of Conor smelling it on her when he greets her. He used to smoke many years ago, but I made him quit. How can a person savour the scents of the garden if their nostrils are full of tobacco? Now he finds the habit unbearable.
Ida is beside herself with excitement. She has put on a pink party dress and Daphne has tied up her hair with a ribbon. She misses the castle because she used to pretend she was a princess in the tower and now she is only a princess in a house. Today, she looks every inch a princess, but how I wish it were me painting her nails and not some upstart from London.
They arrive and Peg parks the car in front of the house. Ellen steps out first and when she sees Conor in the doorway her face breaks into a wide grin. I can see now why he is attracted to her. It is very simple. He is dark and she is light and like all dark creatures he is attracted to the light. Her smile is uninhibited and confident and the way she kisses him is very ‘London’. She has an air of sophistication that the rest of her family do not have. If Conor likes women who stand out, I suppose it is fair to say that Ellen stands out because she is not Irish, and
she is not melancholy, and she is not old enough to be embittered by tragedy or disappointment. She is exuberant and it is infectious.
Ida is standing in the hall behind her father. She has suddenly grown shy. But Ellen crouches down and shows her what is in her bag. My daughter’s eyes grow wide when she sees the sparkly things Ellen is going to stick onto her nails. She gasps with delight and Conor looks on, admiring the natural way Ellen interacts with children. Oh, cynical I may be, but really, it is not hard to buy a child’s affection for a while.
Ida would love a witch, if she smiled and offered to paint her nails.
Peg is anxious but Daphne is in the hall to welcome her. The two women have met before. In the old days, Ronan didn’t have a car and Peg used to drive him up to the castle when he was working for me. But they are not friends. Peg is very different from my mother-in-law, but they do have one thing in common. They are both eccentric in their own way and it is not long before they are sipping cups of tea in front of the drawing-room fire and chatting away like old friends. The Irish are very good at talking and although Daphne has no Irish blood in her veins, she is as loquacious as an Irishwoman born and bred and she and Peg do not draw breath.
I suppose Peg has come to chaperone Ellen. I imagine from the cool way she greeted him that she does not think much of Conor. Her niece, however, does not share her reservations. She spreads the polish and glitter and shiny little baubles on the card table at the other end of the drawing room while Conor sits with Ida and watches Ellen with admiration. Ellen’s cheeks are flushed and every now and then she raises her eyes and looks into his intently, as if she is fascinated by everything he has to say. They are like teenagers, excited by one another but unable to be alone and this sense of the forbidden makes their encounter all the more thrilling.
I watch them closely and feel the power of their attraction in warm waves that quiver between them like electricity. They talk in low voices but every so often their conversation is punctuated by loud bursts of laughter from Conor and husky giggles from Ellen. Peg glances over anxiously, but Daphne quietly tells her that she hasn’t heard Conor laugh with such abandon in many years. Peg looks over again, but this time she is no longer anxious, but compassionate, as if she is seeing him in quite a different light. As if she is for the first time seeing him as a man who has lost his wife and not a two-dimensional character from a Shakespearean tragedy.
Secrets of the Lighthouse Page 14
