Secrets of the Lighthouse

by Santa Montefiore

  This longing to take away his pain makes me feel strangely uplifted. I cannot extract the thorn and I cannot bring Ellen back, but still, the desire to do so fills me with joy. How odd it is to feel pleasure in this way. I have only ever thought of myself. My love was a selfish love and therefore not love at all, but neediness. I realize now that my whole life was driven by this desperate need – and my death a result of it. Oh, why didn’t I know this before? Why now, when my existence has been reduced to this dark and stifling limbo? Did I really have to suffer so much to learn such a simple thing?

  I long with every fibre of my soul to lift Conor out of his grief, even if it means losing myself in the process. If I could wave a magic wand and return Ellen to him, I would, even though I’d be forgotten and relegated to the shelf of unwanted memories. What would it matter? Conor doesn’t want to remember me. After what I did, I am not surprised. How could I ever have believed that that brutal act would force his love? I should have been content with the love he gave me, but I wasn’t. I wanted more and more and more and went to terrible lengths to get it. I never felt loved enough. But if I had only shown him love I would have felt loved in return, that’s the irony of it. If I had only thought of what I could give and not of how much I could be given, I would have been happy. Why didn’t I know that when I was alive? Why did I allow my jealousy to destroy my marriage? Why did I allow my jealousy to destroy him? I watch this strong and powerful man sob like a child on the bed and I realize it is because of me. I did this to him. I did it in life and I did it again in death. It is time I put it right. It is time I let him go.

  But what can I do? There must be something. And as I think of all the things that might bring Ellen and Conor back together again, I notice my spirit growing a little lighter and the fog around me dispersing slightly. I feel more energetic and alive. With this new sense of selflessness I leave the castle and will myself to the beach where I seek inspiration from the sea. I could go to London and whisper into Ellen’s ear. I could tell her Conor loves her and give her the idea to return to Ballymaldoon. I could find Ciara and ask her what to do. I could seek her help. I am sure I am not as powerless as I previously thought. I am powerful, if my actions are motivated by true love. I don’t know why I know this. I just do.

  It comes as a complete surprise, then, when I see Ellen on the beach with Peg and Mr Badger. They are walking up the sand, chatting, as if Ellen had never left. I wonder then whether I am not alone after all. Whether there is someone watching over me, guiding me from a higher level of existence? If there are lower levels, surely there must be higher ones too, where angels dwell. Levels that I can’t see. With this thought I feel myself grow a little lighter, and, as a consequence, a little happier. I watch Ellen and know that there is something I can do to help. I just don’t know what it is.

  And so I follow her back to the house and I watch them drink tea and talk. I watch Oswald come over in the evening to play cards. I watch Dylan and Ellen strumming the guitar in the sitting room and singing in harmony. I watch Johnny and Joe turn up for breakfast. I watch Ellen working in Alanna’s shop and having lunch with Dylan in the pub. I watch life go on, but with the sole purpose of somehow bringing these two distraught lovers together again. I know I can do it. I feel I’m being guided, with senses more alert and open because I am not consumed with thinking about myself any more. I know my opportunity will come and I anticipate it with joy.

  I wait: after all, there is nothing else to do, and my waiting gives me pleasure. I notice the beauty of the countryside as the fog evaporates in the light of my love. I enjoy the longer days and the busy nesting of birds. I listen to their song and watch their flight. I notice the flutter of butterflies and the industrious little bees and my heart expands with the magnificence of God’s earth.

  And then it comes. I am so thrilled I can barely believe it. Ellen is alone one afternoon at the table in Peg’s sitting room. Mr Badger is asleep on the rug in front of the fire which Peg has built because it has rained all day and it is damp and cold. Ellen has lit a scented candle and is playing Dylan’s list of songs on her iPod. The room is infused with the sweet scent of fig and the stirring sounds of violins. Ellen is transported. Her mind is open and empty, and as fertile as the richest soil. It is easy for me to plant my seeds. She thinks she is going to write a song, but I intend to give her a story.

  I drop my words into her mind and she channels them unwittingly onto the page. Her typing is fast and efficient, the flow of inspiration continuous and uninterrupted. It is easy and we are both quivering with exhilaration and surprise, too excited to question why or how.

  October 8th 2007

  It was not yet dark. A yellow glow smouldered behind the hills where the sun was setting, turning the sky a pale flamingo pink. The lighthouse was a black silhouette as we rowed out in the little boat that knew us both so well. It carried us over the waves with its usual determination, like a brave and loyal servant. I smiled at my lover encouragingly as he rowed. He was strong, with broad shoulders and a wide, muscular chest. He grinned back, his face full of adoration, and I felt my heart swell with pleasure. It was so pleasant to be loved with such abandon.

  We had rowed out like this many times before, though I had done it more than he. The lighthouse was my secret place where only I ventured in my little boat, full of dreams. I liked to lie beneath the stars and imagine other worlds out there in the infinite space. I listened to the lapping of waves and the cries of gulls and took pleasure from the danger I was in, knowing the fury I would incite if I was caught. But tonight was different. I was not alone. I was with my lover and I had a plan. This time, if I was caught, it would be infinitely worse. I sensed that tonight something dramatic was going to happen. Tonight I would give him the opportunity to prove his love once and for all.

  We reached the island and tied the boat to the rocks. The tide was out and the little pools were shallow and full of shrimps and crabs. It was a still night and the wind was a silken caress. He took my hand and we hurried up the grassy path to the lighthouse. Inside, the wooden stairs were lined with small candles. He lit them one by one and they glowed brightly through the dusk as the sun sank lower and the sky darkened above us. Up the stairs we climbed, through the avenue of little tea lights, until we reached the room at the top, which was round like a nest.

  My room was as exquisite as Aladdin’s cave. I had hung drapes on the walls in rich purples and greens, and the floor was covered with brightly coloured rugs and velvet cushions. There was no electricity, for the lighthouse had not been used in years; the only light was given by the rows and rows of candles, in all shapes and sizes, which were placed around the room and filled the air with perfume.

  We opened a bottle of wine and drank to our health and our future. We lost ourselves in each other. He whispered that he loved me, that he would die without me, that I was the very air he breathed. I told him I didn’t believe him, so he kissed me even harder, trying to prove his devotion. I revelled in his valiant attempts to convince me that I held his heart in my hands. I basked in the warmth of his enthusiasm. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ he murmured as he tried desperately to possess me body and soul. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ he groaned. But I did not love him back. I could not, for there was only one man I loved and it was not he.

  My lover heard the motor before I did. I was slowly coming down from the heady heights of his flattery, which had fulfilled me more than the physical pleasure of our lovemaking. He sat up in panic and lifted his nose, like a dog that senses danger on the wind.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ he asked and I listened. He was right. The sound of a motorboat rose above the sounds of the sea.

  I sat up and feigned surprise. ‘It’s him,’ I said, hurrying to my feet and searching for my clothes among the cushions.

  ‘Jaysus! You’ve got to hide me!’ he cried, pulling on his trousers.

  ‘There is nowhere to hide,’ I replied, and I watched his face contort with fe
ar.

  ‘What’ll he do?’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘You said he was in Dublin!’ he hissed.

  ‘I thought he was,’ I replied, buttoning up my dress. ‘It might not be him,’ I added. But I knew, because I had planned it just like this.

  ‘It is him,’ he replied and his big eyes gazed at me, full of dread. ‘What’ll you tell him?’

  ‘That I love him.’

  ‘That’s not good enough!’ he retorted. ‘He won’t believe you.’ But it was the truth and the only truth. I had done this for him, for us. He would surely realize how much I needed him; that every time he left me I was at the mercy of predatory men who wanted me for themselves. He’d realize that he couldn’t leave me. I needed him and I needed his love. If that didn’t convince him of my need, nothing would.

  ‘He’ll believe me,’ I told him. ‘Trust me.’

  I hurried down the stairs, past the burning candles, careful not to catch the hem of my dress in the flames. Outside, it was dark but for a sliver of moon peeping out of the cloud, which left a thin trail of mercury on the water. My husband was tethering his boat to the rocks. He lifted his eyes to the lighthouse and saw me standing in the doorway. I anticipated his fury and his fear, like a child anticipating the embrace of an anxious parent. He strode over the rocks and up the grassy path towards me. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked and his eyes weren’t full of fury and fear, but of weariness and exasperation. I suddenly noticed how tired he looked and how unhappy.

  ‘I thought you were in Dublin,’ I answered.

  ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. There was nowhere to hide and my lover stepped out from behind me, sheepish and afraid.

  My husband’s face grew red with amazement. ‘How could you, Caitlin? He’s just a boy!’

  ‘I’m a man,’ said my lover bravely, pulling his shoulders back, but compared to Conor he was still a slender youth.

  ‘Ronan Byrne. Have you no shame?’

  ‘I love her,’ Ronan declared.

  ‘What would your mother say? Hasn’t she been through enough already?’

  ‘Don’t bring Mam into this.’

  ‘She’s a good woman, Ronan. She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken all over again.’ Ronan then stumbled, like a horse before a fence he suddenly realizes is too high to jump. ‘Go on home,’ said Conor wearily. ‘I don’t want Peg to ever learn about this, do you understand?’ There was a warning tone to his voice which made my skin grow cold. ‘I’ll take Caitlin back in my boat.’ Ronan didn’t know what to do with himself. I could see him panicking, thinking of me and thinking of his mother. He remained trapped on the rocks like a terrified crab.

  My anger boiled over in a volcano of jealousy. ‘This is the problem. This is what it’s all about. You don’t care about me, Conor! You don’t mind that I’m sleeping with another man. You don’t love me any more. You wish I was dead!’

  Conor’s mouth twisted in anguish. ‘Caitlin, I’ve had enough of your dramatics. You’ve pushed me over the edge now and you’ve only got yourself to blame.’

  I began to sob. ‘You don’t love me,’ I wailed.

  ‘I love you,’ Ronan cut in, emboldened by my tears. ‘Come away with me, Caitlin.’

  Conor interrupted impatiently. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ronan. Go on home to your mother and forget about it.’

  ‘Caitlin loves me!’ he protested fiercely.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ Conor told him calmly. ‘You’re just a pawn in a bigger game.’

  ‘That’s not true. You don’t love her,’ Ronan accused, even more confident now. ‘You don’t care for her. You’re never here. I’m here. I look after her. I give her what you can’t.’ He turned to me, his eyes burning with the spark of an idea. ‘Run away with me, Caitlin. Right now. We don’t ever have to come back.’

  ‘I don’t love you, Ronan,’ I told him. ‘I love Conor. I always have.’

  But Ronan thought that I was lying to protect him. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No, I mean it, Ronan. I’m not just saying it. It’s been fun, but I love Conor. I love him with all my heart and I will die loving him.’

  Ronan’s face crumpled like a little boy’s as the sincerity of my words hit him like a punch in the stomach. ‘It’s not true, Caitlin. I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that to protect me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I insisted. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But we can be happy, far away from here, Caitlin. We can start again. I know we can. Let me show you how happy we can be.’

  I smiled at him sadly. ‘I’ll never leave my home and my children, Ronan. Do as Conor says and go home.’ Then I lowered my voice for only Ronan to hear. ‘Please, my love, don’t be a fool. Leave before he lays a hand on you.’ He gave me a long, desperate stare, and then hurried past me, down the path to where we’d tied the boat to the rocks. I hoped he’d be safe, rowing out in the dark. I glanced up at the sky and saw the moon, now big and round like a crystal ball, and realized it would be sufficient to guide him back to shore.

  ‘Come on, Caitlin,’ said Conor, reaching for my hand.

  ‘So you think this is a game?’ I asked.

  ‘You said yourself that you don’t love him. You’ve been using him to get at me, but I’m unmoved, Caitlin. Unmoved.’

  ‘He’s been my lover for months,’ I gloated provocatively. ‘While you were in Dublin and America, I’ve been making love to Ronan. What does it matter if I don’t love him, Conor? He loves me. You heard him! He loves me with all his heart.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ he repeated, horrified by my callous disregard for Ronan. ‘Caitlin, have you lost your mind? He’s a boy and you’ve destroyed him.’

  ‘I wanted you to show me you care.’

  ‘By provoking my jealousy?’ He stared at me incredulously. ‘You’d go that far to provoke me?’

  ‘You don’t understand me. After all these years, you don’t know me at all.’

  ‘No,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  At that point I could not contain my frustration a moment longer. ‘What will it take for you to love me, Conor?’ I cried in despair.

  ‘I did love you, Caitlin, but you’ve drained me dry. I have nothing left to give.’ He was shouting at me now, his voice strained with frustration. ‘You need help, Caitlin. Professional help, because I don’t know what else I can do. You’re not in your right mind. I should have realized years ago instead of putting my head under the carpet and ignoring your cries for help. I’ve been callous. I’m sorry, darling. You don’t need me but a good doctor who knows how to make you better.’

  ‘You think I’m mad.’

  ‘No! You’re not mad, you’re unbalanced. I know I can get help for you.’

  ‘You don’t want me any more! You want to claim I’m insane and have me put away.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You want me put away!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want me dead!’ I whispered, shocked at the realization that he must surely want me out of the way.

  ‘No, Caitlin, I didn’t say that.’ He reached for me, but I threw myself back. I suddenly felt the world spinning away from me. I felt detached, floating above the island and the lighthouse, miles away from reality. It was as if I knew I was on the brink of losing everything, but unable to stop myself.

  ‘You want me dead!’ I repeated and the calmness in my voice frightened me. ‘When all I have given you is love.’ I turned and fled up the stairs.

  I glanced back to see that he was not following me. I wanted him to run after me and pull me into his arms and beg forgiveness. But he didn’t. I was alone on the stairs. Alone as I felt I had been all through our marriage. I let out a desperate sob, turned back to the stairs and ran to the top. It wasn’t until I reached the balcony which ran all the way around the lighthouse that I realized my dress had caught fire. It was consuming the fabric with such speed I had no time to rip it of
f. Before I knew what was happening I was burning. Crazed with terror, I had one final thought before I threw myself over the edge: He’ll realize he loves me when it is too late, and he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

  A moment later I was above myself, watching my body land and break on the rocks below. I saw Conor on the balcony, staring down in horror and disbelief. He had followed me, after all.

  How clear everything is to me now. I had his love but I hadn’t recognized it. How foolishly we behave when we know no better. Why does it take so much unhappiness to make us realize there is nothing of any value in our lives but love? That is all there is. It is all we take with us when we die. It is the only thing I will take with me when I move on. It is all that I am. I just never knew it.

  Chapter 35

  Ellen stopped typing. She stared at the screen in astonishment. The flow of inspiration had ceased to run through her. It had simply switched itself off like a light. She had nothing more to add. Not a word. The room felt strangely cold even though the fire crackled heartily in the grate. She rubbed her hands together. Her fingers were icy. She scrolled back to the beginning of the story and read it again, her heart pounding with excitement. These were definitely not her words. She simply couldn’t have written this even if she had wanted to. They weren’t her thoughts, either. When the names Ronan, Caitlin and Conor had dropped into the narration, she had been so stunned that she had almost ceased typing, but the story was being dictated with such force, she had had no choice but to keep going. Was it possible that Caitlin had somehow channelled her story through her? If so, why?

  Without wasting another minute ruminating on things of which she knew nothing, she printed out the story and left the room. Peg was in the garden with Reilly, who had just come out of hibernation, trying to train him to use the new house Ronan had fashioned for him out of pine. Ellen hurried across the gravel to Oswald’s house. He was in his sitting room, busily putting the finishing touches to his portrait of Peg.

  ‘Oswald,’ she hissed, falling into the room and closing the door behind her. ‘I need you to read something for me urgently.’