‘But when you touched the dog, I saw his hair flatten. You actually touched him as if you had real hands. How did you do that?’
She laughs. ‘You can do it, too. You have to concentrate. Your mind is much stronger than your hands ever were. Your hands were so limited and clumsy. It is amazing what you can do with your mind if you concentrate.’
‘Where did you learn all of this?’ I ask, for she doesn’t speak like a child at all.
‘When you decide to move on, you’ll go there, too, and when you do you’ll realize that home was never here, on earth. Home is where you come from.’
‘But I’m frightened to leave my family.’
‘You never leave them, Caitlin.’
‘I wouldn’t know the way to this home now, even if I wanted to go there.’
‘Yes, you would. It’s love, Caitlin. That’s all it is. Love.’
I leave her at Peg’s house and think myself into the field of sheep. Ciara is right about the mind; it is amazing that without the encumbrance of the physical body, my mind will take me wherever I want to go. The thought is the deed and here I am among sheep. I stand with them and watch to see if they notice my presence. Of course, they wander right through me because I am as immaterial as light. At first, I am frustrated. But I remember Ciara’s words and concentrate. I place my hand on their woolly backs and feel nothing. They graze away, unaware of me. And then it occurs to me that perhaps it is not that they are unaware of me, but that I am like the wind and rain, and they accept me as part of nature. Could it be that? I ask myself.
I concentrate fully on the back of a sheep. I try to imagine the texture of her wool. I try very hard to focus. I kneel down and look her straight in the eye, rubbing my fingers up and down her long nose. I practise without pause for I don’t know how long. I have no concept of time. Then suddenly, without warning, the sheep notices me and tosses her head. I am shocked. It has been so long since I have been noticed. With a tremor of excitement I try again. At first, it doesn’t work; I have to concentrate as before, and practise. But then I master it. Mind over matter, it is really very simple.
If I can stroke the sheep, surely I can stroke my children? If I can affect the living then I can put a stop to the flowering romance between Conor and Ellen. With the force of my will I can drive them apart. But there must be limits, for surely if it were so easy to influence lives from where I am, then jealous, angry, resentful spirits bent on revenge would wreak havoc. They would maim and murder without restraint. No, there must be limits to my power, but I will go as far as I am able. I’m not asking for much. I just want what is mine.
Chapter 18
Ellen sat in front of her blank computer screen, chin in hand, dreaming about Conor. So far she hadn’t written a word. She was much too excited to concentrate. She pictured his generous features and his wide, infectious smile, and found herself grinning as she recalled their telephone conversation line by line. She didn’t know how she was going to last until Thursday.
Frustrated at the lack of inspiration, she went to find her aunt. Peg was moving the sheep into the next-door field, with the help of Mr Badger. ‘I thought you were meant to be writing?’ Peg said when her niece approached.
‘I can’t think of my plot,’ Ellen replied.
‘Your head is full of other things,’ Peg said with a knowing smile. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk and clear your head of Mr Macausland?’
Ellen smiled. ‘I can’t, Peg.’
‘Well, sitting in front of your computer won’t do you any good either. At least you’ll get some fresh air.’
‘I’m afraid I’ll get lost again.’
‘And your knight in shining armour isn’t around to rescue you. I tell you what. If you walk along the coast you won’t get lost.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Keep to the path with the sea in your sights and you’ll always know where you are.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Ellen replied happily. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll send Oswald out to find you. And be sure to wear a coat, pet, that wall of cloud is coming this way.’
Ellen set off up the hill behind Peg’s house and joined a well-trodden path that cut through the grass like an old scar. It was a damp day. Light drizzle floated on the breeze and every now and then a hole was burned through the cloud and the sun shone through, flooding the sea with soft pools of light. She listened to the birdsong and watched the slow wheeling of gulls and allowed her mind to still in the quiet serenity of her solitude. The more time she spent in the countryside, the lighter her spirit grew. Her chest filled with a fizzy kind of joy she had never experienced before in the concrete wilderness of London. Out here on the hills, she truly felt that anything was possible, even her novel, her burgeoning relationship with Conor, her newfound independence, happiness. Somehow she sensed that everything would sort itself out.
After a while she turned a corner to see a pretty little chapel on the horizon. It looked old and abandoned from where she stood. There were gravestones dotted about and a surrounding stone wall that protected them from the winds that blew in off the sea. A path led down the slope to a little wooden gate that had swung open. Curiosity propelled her forward and she hurried along the path.
As she walked through the gate, a few blackbirds hopped about stones half buried in the long grasses. The sun shone a spotlight onto the chapel and Ellen noticed that the front door had been carelessly left ajar. She took in the magnificent view of the ocean, which stretched out vast and wide to the end of the earth where it was swallowed up by cloud. It was a beautiful, tranquil spot and she thought it a shame that the chapel appeared to have been neglected, like so many castles and houses that lay scattered on the hills like old bones.
Just then, a flash of scarlet caught the corner of her eye. The vibrant colour stood out brightly amidst the green grass and yellow heather. She took in the jar of red roses, surprised that anyone had been laid to rest here in this forgotten corner of Ireland. They were placed against a gravestone near the wall and were clearly a few days old, for their petals had opened wide and one or two had already wept like tears onto the ground. She wandered down to get a better look and was even more surprised when she read the name CAITLIN MACAUSLAND engraved on the headstone. She bent over and read the epitaph. So, this was the little chapel where Caitlin’s funeral took place, and where Conor was shunned by the locals.
Suddenly a familiar voice broke the silence and almost made her jump out of her skin. ‘That’s the grave of Caitlin Macausland.’ It was Dylan, striding down the slope towards her.
Ellen stood up. ‘Oh, hello, Dylan,’ she replied, hand on heart. ‘You gave me a fright.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.’
‘What are you doing here?’
He put his hands in his coat pockets and swept his eyes over the sea. ‘I like the peace. No one bothers me in this chapel. I find it inspiring.’ Then he gazed at her, his brown eyes smiling warmly. ‘I’ve always loved the romance of ruins.’
‘Me too,’ she replied. ‘I just stumbled upon this one.’
‘Caitlin Macausland loved it, too. I used to bump into her from time to time, just sitting up here in a pew, contemplating life.’
‘Is that what you do, too?’
‘I suppose I do. I write, as well. Some of my best poetry was written right here, with this view. I think you’d find it inspiring, too.’
‘I know I would. No one uses it now, I don’t suppose.’
‘No, the last time it was used was at Caitlin’s funeral, and that was five years ago. I don’t think it had been used for a hundred years before that.’
‘Sad.’
‘All ruins are sad. They’re like shells, hinting at the life they once housed, but giving little away. They arouse our curiosity. We want to know more.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and popped one in his mouth. Shielding it from the wind, he flicked his lighter and lit it. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks, I’m trying to give up.’
‘Good on you.’ He blew a puff of smoke into the damp air.
‘So, why is she buried here and not in Ballymaldoon?’ Ellen asked.
‘Because she belongs in a romantic place like this. She wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in town. It was I who told her the story of the heartbroken sailor who built this little chapel for his young wife who tragically died soon after they were wed. Caitlin loved the romance of it, even if it’s a load of old rubbish.’ He shrugged and gave a jaunty grin. ‘I don’t know. It’s a good story and she was the sort of woman who loved stories. Conor knew that better than anyone. The sailor’s wife is buried up at the top there.’ He pointed. ‘The sailor wanted her to keep watch over him when he was out at sea.’
‘Lovely idea.’
‘That’s what Caitlin thought, too.’
‘You knew her quite well, then?’
‘I don’t think you could ever know Caitlin Macausland well. I’m not sure that even her husband knew her well. There was something unfathomable about her. But she was lonely in that castle when Conor was away, and would come up here from time to time and find me. She was grateful for someone to talk to.’
‘He obviously loved her. He’s still leaving her flowers five years later.’ Ellen tried to hide her disappointment. She had a strange feeling that Dylan had the ability to read her thoughts just by looking into her eyes so she dropped her gaze.
‘Perhaps,’ Dylan replied. ‘The funny thing is that there are always roses up here.’
‘What’s funny about that?’
‘Well, Conor’s in Dublin most of the time, isn’t he?’
‘Perhaps he arranges for someone to put them here for him when he’s away.’
‘That’s a possibility. I happen to think it’s more mysterious than that.’
She smiled in response to the mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Are you a conspiracy theorist, Dylan?’
‘Just an old romantic.’
‘You think someone else loved her?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Who?’
He shook his head and took a long drag before blowing out the smoke like an old dragon. ‘I don’t want to go setting the cat among the pigeons,’ he answered finally.
Ellen recalled that he had seen someone rowing back to shore from the lighthouse the night Caitlin died and wished he’d tell her who he thought it was, but she knew it wouldn’t be right as a newcomer to look too interested. ‘The plot thickens,’ was all she said, which closed the subject.
‘Come, do you want to see what I’ve been up to?’ He trod his cigarette butt into the grass then began to walk back towards the chapel.
‘OK,’ she replied, although she wasn’t in the least curious. She followed him inside. It was a classic chapel with a stone floor, wooden pews, glass windows cut into thick walls, a carved wooden pulpit and a religious painting designed around the arch window behind the altar. The air was stale and cold as it always is in churches.
Dylan picked up his guitar from the front pew. ‘I’ve been composing,’ he said proudly.
‘So, you have been inspired.’
‘Very.’ He grinned broadly, as if he was guarding a wonderful secret.
‘Are you going to play me something?’
‘If you like.’ He sat down and put the guitar over his knee. Ellen sat in the opposite aisle and watched him strum a few chords and adjust the tuning pegs. The sound echoed around the church. ‘I’ll play you one of my old ones,’ he suggested.
‘Why not the one you’ve been composing?’
‘Because it’s not ready.’
‘OK. Play me one of your old tunes then.’
‘It’s called “Lost to Me”.’
Ellen frowned. ‘I’m sad already and you haven’t even sung a note.’
For some reason she was surprised when he began to play beautifully. She had expected to feel a little embarrassed and to have to feign admiration. It wasn’t that she had doubted his ability to play the guitar, but the way people laughed at him had given her the impression that he was rather useless. She hadn’t expected him to play well, even though Peg had told her he had been quite successful in his day and had one or two hits in Ireland. He sang with confidence, as if he were used to an audience, and his voice was unexpectedly rich, with a sad, plaintive tone that Ellen knew could break a heart.
He sang of his lost love and Ellen understood immediately that the poem was about her mother. The imagery was so beautiful as to have been inspired by only the very deepest sorrow. She listened, without moving, to every word. Whatever anyone thought of Dylan, he was an extremely gifted and talented man.
As he sang, Ellen grew serious. She now looked with fresh eyes at the man everyone mocked as the local drunk, the local joke. He wasn’t mad at all; he was broken.
Dylan played the final chord and Ellen waited until the last sound had echoed off the walls and died before she picked up her hands and clapped. ‘That was beyond lovely, Dylan. It was heavenly.’ And she smiled with pleasure because she really meant it.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly, then lowered his eyes as if he were suddenly ashamed to have exposed himself.
She gazed at him with a new fondness. ‘You wrote that for my mother, didn’t you?’
‘The greatest work is often born out of the greatest sadness.’
‘You still love her, don’t you?’
He was pensive a moment, staring at the flagstone at his feet. Then he trained his big eyes on hers and said, ‘I think when you love like that, you never stop.’
‘Even though she’s not the same woman now?’
‘She’ll always be the same Maddie, inside.’ He said this hopefully, Ellen thought, as if he couldn’t bear to imagine her being any different.
‘Life can be dreadfully disappointing, can’t it?’ she said, longing to show that she understood.
But his face brightened and he grinned. ‘And then something happens to restore your faith. Just when you think you have lost everything, an unexpected gift is placed on your doorstep to show that all was not lost. Sometimes it takes a lifetime, but you have to be patient and know that even your cloud, however dark, will eventually be lined with silver.’
Ellen wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, whether he was referring to himself or to ‘one’ generally. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said impartially. ‘You know I taught myself the guitar when I was at school,’ she told him.
‘Do you want to have a go?’ He lifted the instrument off his knee.
‘I don’t think I’d remember much now.’
‘Try.’
‘Mum didn’t want me to learn guitar. She was terrified I’d play in a band and bring the family into disrepute.’
‘So you taught yourself?’
‘And formed a band.’ She grinned triumphantly. ‘Not that we were very good. But I loved it.’
‘Who wrote the songs?’
‘I tried.’ She laughed and crinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure I’d remember them now. It was so long ago.’
‘Have a strum. See if it still feels familiar.’
She took the guitar and put it on her knee. Then she placed her fingers over the strings and strummed a rather nervous G chord. Then she went from G to D to F, her confidence rising as it all began to come back to her.
‘There, you see, your fingers remember.’
‘Let’s see if I can remember any of my old tunes.’
She couldn’t remember the words but she could hum the tune to one of the songs she had played in her band at school. Dylan was quick to catch on and hummed too, until they were both jamming together. Dylan started to put words to the tune and to sing in harmony. It wasn’t long before they had composed a catchy chorus together. They sang it over and over, Dylan drumming his hands on the pew in front and moving his body to the rhythm. They grinned at each other in mutual admiration as their music filled the chapel and bounced off the walls in
a satisfying echo.
They were enjoying themselves so much that neither noticed the time pass. It was only when Dylan’s stomach began to contribute, too, that they decided it was time to go and eat. ‘Let me treat you to dinner at the pub,’ Dylan suggested. ‘You’ve earned it by humouring an old man!’
‘You’re not old, Dylan!’ Ellen laughed, handing him back his guitar. ‘And you’re extremely good.’
‘So could you be, if you’d let me teach you.’
‘Do you think? I’m not sure I could compose like you do.’
‘Of course you could, and you have a beautiful voice.’
‘Maybe I have to wait until I’m sad. Maybe you can only create beautiful things when inspired by some deep sadness.’
‘There are many ways to compose and not all songs are sad. It just happens that most of mine were inspired by your mother. If we play together, I might be inspired by happiness instead.’
They put on their coats and walked out into the drizzle. The clouds had moved inland off the sea and now hung low and heavy over the coast. ‘You’re going to get wet,’ said Dylan. ‘Do you want to borrow my hat?’
‘No, you wear it. I don’t mind the rain. In fact, I like it when it’s in the countryside. I feel the water is clean and good for me.’
‘Oh, it’s clean all right and there’s plenty of it.’ They set off down the path at a brisk pace, past the jar of roses and Caitlin Macausland’s grave and on through the little wooden gate. ‘How is your novel coming along?’ Dylan asked.
Ellen sighed. ‘I haven’t written a word.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. I’m inspired by the countryside, but I haven’t figured out a plot yet.’
‘Why don’t you put on some music, light a candle, inject a bit of atmosphere into the room, then empty your mind and see what comes.’
‘Do people write like that, or just you? I thought it was preferable to work out a framework first.’
He grinned. ‘Everyone works differently, but I guess that you’d work well like that. To let inspiration come you have to empty your thoughts and wait for it to run through you.’
Secrets of the Lighthouse Page 21
