Secrets of the Lighthouse

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘But he lives with you.’

  ‘He lives with both of us.’

  ‘Sounds like the child of divorced parents.’

  He chuckled. ‘It does a bit, I suppose. He’s a mongrel. He’s happy wherever he is as long as he’s fed and watered.’ He stood aside. ‘Let her pass, Finch. Come on in. I bought a Coke especially.’

  ‘Thank you. How are the spuds?’

  ‘Just grand,’ he replied, following her inside.

  Dylan’s sitting room was very masculine, with a big, worn leather sofa and threadbare armchairs in rust-red and brown. A fire was crackling in the grate, filling the room with the smell of woodsmoke. An ashtray full of cigarette butts sat on one of the sofa tables and bookcases sagged beneath the weight of so many books. An upright piano stood against one wall with its lid up, the keys yellowed with age. Manuscripts and magazines lay strewn on every surface. There was no order in the room at all and yet it had immense charm.

  ‘So, this is where you create?’ she said, noticing the guitar leaning against one of the armchairs.

  ‘You can tell?’ She glanced at him and saw that he was grinning. He scratched his bristly chin. ‘I wonder what gives it away.’

  ‘I think it’s lovely. It’s very you, Dylan. I bet poor Martha isn’t allowed to touch anything.’

  ‘You’re not wrong, Ellen. Martha’s barely allowed into the house at all. You’re very privileged! Right, let me get you a drink and then we’ll start playing. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Good. I’ll give the spuds a little longer, then.’ He left the room.

  Ellen wandered around, looking at everything. She expected photographs of his beloved Maddie but there were none on display. She wondered whether he had hidden them somewhere, out of respect for Martha. She heard him humming in the kitchen and smiled to herself. She was pleased to be there and excited at the prospect of learning the guitar again, after a decade of not playing. Her mother had done everything in her power to prevent her singing in a band and yet here she was, about to jam with a real musician who just happened to be her mother’s old flame. The irony of the situation made it all the more enthralling.

  She wandered over to a chest of drawers placed beneath a window, and lifted a handwritten music score, entitled ‘Connemara Sky’. Beneath the score was a heap of loose CDs, seemingly tossed into a careless pile. She picked one up. At first glance, she thought the photograph was of Al Pacino, but on closer inspection she saw that it was a younger Dylan. Peg was right, he had been very handsome in a dark and brooding way.

  She heard him returning and hastily replaced the manuscript. She didn’t want him to catch her snooping. He handed her the glass of Coke. ‘I’ve finished your iPod,’ he said, picking up his guitar. ‘You’ve got a great playlist to write to. Don’t let me forget to give it to you, all right?’

  ‘Will you give me some of your old albums to listen to as well?’

  For a moment, he looked a little shifty. ‘I might have one or two knocking around. I’m not sure,’ he replied vaguely.

  ‘But . . .’ She was about to protest that she had just seen a whole pile of various albums sitting on the chest of drawers, but there was something in his demeanour which betrayed his reluctance. The fact that he didn’t want her to listen to his old tracks made her all the more curious to hear them. ‘If you have any spare, I’d love to have one.’

  ‘You’ll have to brush off the cobwebs.’

  ‘It wasn’t that long ago!’

  ‘Right, sit over here and let’s begin. Play me the chord of G.’

  As she relearned the scale under Dylan’s patient guidance, it all came flooding back as it had in the chapel. The black notes on the score he placed in front of her suddenly began to make sense and her fingers felt the old, familiar patterns she thought she’d forgotten. As she played a Beatles song, Dylan sat at the piano and accompanied her by ear. Later, she realized that he didn’t really need to read music at all. Once he’d heard a tune, he could play it beautifully on any instrument that took his fancy. Music was a language that he spoke fluently, and after supper, when he sang her some of his own songs, she realized that it was a means by which he was able to fully express himself.

  They sang in natural harmony, their voices blending to create a rich and moving sound. And as they sang, they stared at each other in delight, both aware of the magic they engendered when their voices came together. Reluctant to stop, they followed one song with another, until they were composing together, their ideas bouncing off each other like a fast and furious ball game in which the players only just manage to keep up. Ellen felt her spirit inflate with happiness as it had done that morning on the beach when she had tossed her telephone into the sea. At last, she had found an outlet for her trapped and suffocated creativity.

  It was late when Ellen got up to leave. If it hadn’t been for the thought of her aunt listening out for the sound of her car, Ellen would have readily stayed until dawn. But it was after midnight and she knew that if she remained there any longer she’d give the town something else to gossip about. It was bad enough that she was seeing Conor; she didn’t want to be accused of having a romance with Dylan as well!

  Before she left, Dylan went upstairs to get her iPod. It didn’t take her long to pinch a CD from the chest of drawers. She didn’t feel too bad, because he had so many, and she translated his unwillingness as embarrassment at having composed so many songs about her mother. Perhaps they revealed more of his heart than he wanted to show her. Either way, she resolved to listen to the songs then return the CD without him ever knowing. As for the iPod, she wondered whether the music would imbue her with the same enthusiasm their jamming session had inspired tonight.

  She returned to Peg’s with a lightness in her heart. Her aunt did not come out of her room, but she sensed she was awake, like a mother listening out for her daughter. When at last she climbed into bed, she called Conor. ‘Hello, my darling,’ he said sleepily. ‘Where have you been?’

  Chapter 25

  Lord Anthony Trawton is not as I expect. He is tall and thin, with greying fair hair and watery blue eyes, the colour of an English sky at dawn. He has a long, straight nose but his lips are thin and his chin recedes, which is not attractive, though I suppose he looks aristocratic, which is probably what attracted the young Maddie Byrne in the first place. He has a slight stoop and a gentle, almost apologetic, expression, and I wonder whether years of marriage to this ambitious, steely woman has somehow diminished him. He looks flattened, like a runner bean, while his wife is voluptuous and robust like a plum.

  Lady Trawton is a striking woman. She has black shoulder-length hair, blow-dried into a shiny bouffant, and thick black lashes, which frame sly, feline eyes. Her skin is pale and her lips are scarlet but she is brittle and formidable and self-important. She has the manner of a woman who has always been beautiful. I know, because I was beautiful, too, and understood how to use it to my advantage.

  Madeline is accustomed to being in control of her world. The house is lavishly decorated but as uncomfortable as a museum. Everything looks contrived, as if she has bought things to build an image but not a home. Those silk sofas are exquisite but too plump to sit on; the tables are arranged with magnificent objects but they tell you nothing about the woman who acquired them; even the vases of orchids look sterile, like those plastic-looking, tropical flowers in hotel lobbies I’ve seen in magazines. The rooms are expensive and grand but artificial, and I see that the only bookshelf is filled with glossy hardbacks on art which have clearly been ordered in bulk but never read. Conor and I chose everything with love, regardless of theme. We threw it all together over the years in a delicious salad of colours and textures and saw how harmoniously they fell into place, layer by layer. Our castle was truly our home because every object, every painting, every piece of furniture was chosen because we liked it, and every book was placed in the library because Conor had read it. But this house is as shallow as a pretty
fountain and the water that runs through it is cold.

  Lavinia and Leonora are tall and leggy with long blonde hair and their father’s big blue eyes. They have an air of entitlement which money and privilege have given them. Confident, manicured and languid, they are women who do nothing but lunch in fine restaurants and waft around cocktail parties like fragrant lilies. Ellen might not have their stature, or their more classic beauty, but at least the girl has character. There is no doubting that. She has the spirit of an Irishwoman, all right. She has humour, wit and intelligence whereas these lovely creatures are as lifeless as shop dummies. It is hard to imagine that they are all from the same nest.

  Ellen has sent them all into a froth of excitement over her disappearance. Madeline is not coping well, for she is a woman who is used to holding the puppet strings, but now the puppet has run off on her own, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She is restless and fretful and angry. Anthony is more phlegmatic; after all, he tells her, the girl has only been away a couple of weeks. He says she will come to her senses and return when she is ready, but Madeline senses the deeper issues that lie beneath, like entangled snakes in a pit that has always been hidden below the surface, growing fatter and more threatening on the food of Ellen’s discontent.

  So, Madeline is alone with her anxiety because her husband does not perceive the true nature of his daughter’s running away. To him, she is simply taking a break from the stress of her impending wedding. But to Madeline, her daughter is repeating what she did some thirty-three years ago, and with her flight she is running her nails through the silt at the bottom of Madeline’s orderly life, clouding the water with memories she would rather forget.

  So, it is easy for me to whisper into her consciousness at night, because the seed of suspicion has already been planted by Madeline’s own guilt. Ireland is on her mind, and when she is sleeping it is in her dreams, for she tosses and mumbles and I intuit that scenes from her past are now resurfacing and beginning to haunt her, like corpses resurrected in a graveyard. So, I haunt her yet more. I whisper the words that carry the most pain: Dylan, Ellen Olenska, Dylan, Ellen Olenska, over and over again. Remember, time is not an issue for me. I can remain at her ear for days and not grow weary or bored. And so I do, and drop by drop I water the seed and watch it grow, until I see the first green shoot of my labours.

  ‘Ireland!’ she gasps one morning, sitting up in bed and pushing her eyemask onto her forehead. ‘Ireland!’ She prods her husband, who lies sleeping beside her. It is dawn and the rumble of early traffic can be heard like the distant roar of the sea. ‘Anthony, wake up. I know where she is.’ She switches on the light at her bedside table.

  Anthony rolls onto his back and opens his eyes with a groan. ‘You know where she is?’ he murmurs patiently, looking at his watch. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I sense it. I can’t think why I didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘Darling, why would she have gone to Ireland? She doesn’t know anyone there.’

  ‘Because it’s the one place she knows I won’t look for her.’

  Anthony puts his hand on her arm. It is the first affectionate gesture I have seen him make. ‘You’re driving yourself mad with this, Madeline. You’ve got to stop worrying about her. She’s not a child. She’ll come back.’

  ‘No, I’m sure I’m right.’

  ‘Did you dream about Ireland?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gasps, as if he has just touched an open wound.

  ‘Come on, let’s have some breakfast.’

  She climbs out of bed and hurries into the bathroom. ‘I need confirmation. You know that silly Emily never called me back, so I’m going to go around and see her myself. The mountain will go to Muhammad.’

  ‘If you like, darling,’ he replies, wearily.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to get it out of her one way or another. This is going to stop right now. I’ve had enough.’ She stares at her face in the mirror, defeated a moment by the onslaught of age which is at its most aggressive in the mornings. ‘How selfish of Ellen to put me through this! It’s spoiling my beauty!’

  That evening, I follow her to a white stucco building in Pimlico. It is dark and windy and the pavements glisten with rain. She sits in her chauffeur-driven Bentley, watching the window like a thief waiting to pounce. It is cold. The exhaust from the car disperses into the icy air like fog and there is a grey mist around the street lamps. I feel heavy and dark in my soul, as if the night is somehow penetrating my being and dragging me deeper into my limbo and further away from the light, which I know is out there somewhere, beyond my powers of perception now.

  At last, a young woman in a belted coat and woollen hat appears out of the shadows and hurries up the steps to her front door. She fumbles in her bag for the key. Madeline does not wait for her to unlock the door and disappear inside. She is too shrewd for that. Instead, she climbs out before the chauffeur can open the door for her and in a moment she is right behind her.

  ‘Emily!’

  The girl turns, her face white beneath her black hat. ‘Lady Trawton!’ She has been taken by surprise. She looks as if she has just seen a ghost. I don’t think she’d look any more frightened were I to materialize before her.

  ‘As you didn’t return my call, I decided to pay you a visit.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Why don’t we go inside? It’s much too cold to be standing out here.’

  Emily unlocks the door with trembling fingers and they both step into the hall. Her apartment is on the first floor and neither speaks as they climb the narrow staircase. Madeline looks around the small flat with detachment. She has no interest in it at all. I can tell you that it has infinitely more charm than No. 12 Eaton Court. Emily takes off her coat. She is wearing a fashionable skirt to the knee and fine leather boots. In the light of the apartment, I can see that she is a pretty young woman with light-brown hair, high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. She’s too thin, which is the modern malaise, and if I were her mother I’d bake her a few more spuds to fatten her up. Madeline remains in the middle of the sitting room, without taking off her coat. She isn’t intending to stay long. Just long enough to have her theory confirmed. I can tell that Emily doesn’t stand a chance against Madeline Trawton. No one does.

  ‘So, you know why I’ve come,’ Madeline begins crisply.

  Emily has stopped shaking. She wanders into the kitchen, which is attached to the sitting room, and takes a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge. ‘I don’t know about you, Lady Trawton, but I need a glass of wine at the end of my day.’

  ‘I know where she is, Emily.’

  The girl pours the wine into a glass. She cannot drink it fast enough. No sooner has she put down the bottle than the glass is on her lips.

  ‘She’s in Ireland,’ Madeline states, as if it is an immutable fact. ‘Don’t look so surprised. It was inevitable that I was going to find out eventually. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Who told you?’ Emily asks, without even trying to protest.

  ‘I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.’

  Emily gulps her wine and swallows loudly.

  ‘I want you to telephone her and tell her to come back.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I don’t have her number.’

  ‘You have her mobile telephone number, surely. She’ll answer for you.’

  ‘She threw it into the sea.’

  Madeline is frustrated. ‘What a silly thing to do. What’s got into her?’

  Emily looks anxious, then she blurts, ‘She doesn’t want to marry William.’

  Madeline is shocked. ‘Of course she does,’ she snaps.

  ‘No, she really doesn’t.’ Emily’s shoulders drop in defeat, as if she is aware that she is betraying her friend and feels guilty.

  ‘She’s just got cold feet.’

  ‘It’s more than that. She doesn’t love him.’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she wants.’

  Emily drains her glass and refills it, then leans back aga
inst the counter. ‘She told me she’s fallen in love with Connemara and never wants to come back.’

  Madeline’s face swells, the colour of a pepper. Emily recovers, like an athlete who is back in the race after a brief stumble.

  ‘What do you mean, she’s fallen in love with Connemara? She’s only been away a fortnight.’

  Emily shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She told me a week ago. They’re all singing “Danny Boy” in the pub, which is called the Pot of Gold.’

  Madeline looks unsteady on her feet. Her voice grows quiet. ‘And she said she never wants to come back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous.’ But the venom has gone out of her tone. She sounds defeated.

  ‘But true. I can assure you, wild horses wouldn’t drag her up the aisle to marry William.’

  ‘Oh, it won’t take as much as that. Not after I’ve spoken to her. I’ll go and bring her back myself.’

  ‘What does it matter if she doesn’t want to marry William? It’s her life . . .’

  For a moment, I see Madeline’s carefully constructed facade crack slightly, as if she is a porcelain doll, breaking from the inside. She blanches. Her skin goes very white, against which her lips are as red as blood. She opens her mouth and lets out a little gasp. Her shoulders droop. I wonder whether Emily has noticed how this stiff, indomitable woman has suddenly taken on the demeanour of a lost child. She is trying to put her thoughts into words, but they aren’t forming as they should. Emily takes another sip, seemingly oblivious to the pain which is so raw and desperate in the older woman’s eyes. It is as if her tormented soul is crying out, but only I can hear it. Emily stands quite still, triumphant even, for she has shaken Ellen’s mother to her core.

  Without uttering another word, Madeline flees. She cannot explain to Emily what she feels. I don’t think she can explain to anyone. But something has rattled her and it is momentous. She almost runs into the street. She tells her chauffeur to leave without her. She wants to walk home. There is no time for him to persuade her to get into the car, for she is already striding over the tarmac. It is a cold night and there is a gale, but Madeline doesn’t care. I feel her need to be alone in the wind. The car drives off slowly, in case she changes her mind and waves for him to come back. But she doesn’t, and eventually it disappears into the traffic.