by Liz Nugent
Starting a family was always the objective and Martin wasted no time. I have never seen such joy in a man as I did the night that Delia was born. ‘A girl!’ he said. ‘My daughter will be queen! Don’t you see? She can marry one of the island lads and keep us all going. And my next daughter can do the same, and the one after that!’
Martin did not hide his disappointment that his three subsequent children were all boys. He ranted and raved at Loretta – ‘What good are boys to us? We need girls!’ – as if she had any way of directing the seed he planted in her to grow one way or the other. Martin’s affection for Loretta dwindled to nothing over the years. After Conor was born, he told me he couldn’t sleep with Loretta again. He couldn’t risk having another boy when he could hardly afford the children he had. In the summers, Loretta could lead tour groups or work in my mam’s bar, but in the winters there was nothing to be done and no money to be made. We didn’t earn much from our small trawler, so I took less of the takings so that Martin could feed his family.
From an early age, Delia stirred trouble in that family. I saw it with my own eyes. Martin doted on her and she knew it. When she was only four years old, she tripped on the harbour wall but she told Martin that Loretta had pushed her. I saw the incident and Loretta was ten yards behind her. It was the next day, when I saw Loretta’s bruised eye, that I discovered that Martin had punished Loretta for hurting Delia. He admitted as much to me, saying ‘that bitch deserved it’, and his anger was so volatile then that I was afraid to tell him the truth. Delia sat in her father’s lap while she told the story. ‘Mammy was bold and Daddy smacked her and then she was crying,’ she said, only a toddler, but with a sly smile on her beautiful face.
Years later, she would take things belonging to her brothers and if they protested she would hurl herself on to the ground and start screaming blue murder. Some of this I witnessed myself and some of Delia’s behaviour was described to me by Loretta. She never let an opportunity go by to get her mother or brothers into trouble with Martin.
Martin got more and more obsessed with his daughter and ranted about how she, and she alone, represented the future of the island. I tried to get him to be realistic. ‘Sure, she might not come back from the mainland after secondary school. She won’t necessarily stay on the island – most of them leave.’
‘She’s my girl, and she knows where her home is. No matter how far she roams, she’ll always come back.’
He began to investigate how he could home-school her. He used to make up wild stories for her about the island’s ancient people. At least, I think he made them up. He was determined that she would stay on the island. It’s ironic that he was the one to send her away in the end, and that I was the one who wouldn’t allow her back.
When Delia caused trouble in the school and Martin moved his family out to the west point of the island, he and I grew closer still. It was easier to be together, when people couldn’t see you coming or going. On the nights we weren’t fishing, we could moor the trawler in a sheltered harbour and hold each other. He was unhappy. He was impatient with Loretta and the children, and they all lived in fear of him, except for Delia. She had no fear of anyone. He said the only time he got any rest was in my arms.
The night when Loretta kissed me, I knew it was out of desperation. She had no real love for me. I was surprised by it, by the softness of her lips. But I pulled away. Loretta was embarrassed afterwards and I told her to forget it, that we should pretend it hadn’t happened.
But Delia had seen the kiss and used it to destroy us all.
I saw the smoke rising as I wandered out towards the western side of the island late that night. I was curious, because in the bar Anthony told me that Martin had put Delia on the ferry to Cregannagh on her own earlier that day, and I had an inkling that something was wrong. I ran when I saw the smoke, but when I got there the cottage was a smouldering mess and it was clear a metal rod had been placed across the door to prevent escape. I heard hysterical screaming and found the little fella, Conor, a blackened mess under the window. It was broken, as if he had been pushed out of it. I took my coat off and wrapped it around him as tightly as I could. My shock turned to horror when at the back of the cottage, I found Martin’s body, his head barely attached by some sinew and the shotgun by his side. I still have the note I found pinned to Martin’s chest. He must have known I would be the person to find him, and them.
Dear Tom
I never expected her to stay faithful to me, and you know, because I was the fool that told you, she’s been talking about taking Delia and the boys to America. I never thought you would betray me too. That you would abandon me and go with her and take my girl with you. You, who I have loved my whole life, would leave me with nothing. Delia heard you talking and saw you making love to my wife. She told me everything.
You knew I had to get married. You pushed Loretta on me and I am not too proud to admit that I was hurt by how easily you accepted her, but I thought that was for my sake and the sake of Inishcrann. But it turns out you wanted her for yourself.
You can blame yourself for what has happened here. Loretta and the boys can go to America in their coffins if they want.
I’m going to hell and I’ll wait for you there.
If you ever cared for me at all, please make sure I’m buried here on the island. I have nothing to leave Delia but the island. When she comes back, you must keep her, and mind her.
God forgive me.
M
With a stone, I pushed the iron rod away from the door. It collapsed and all I could see behind it was the charred thatch covering a molten lump, and I could just make out the bodies of Loretta and Aidan and Brian.
I hid the note and took the screaming boy to my mother. He clasped his small hands tightly around my neck as I ran the width of the island, and I clung to him too because he was the only thing I had left of Martin O’Flaherty.
It was Mam’s idea to throw Martin’s body on to the others and start the fire again. She called a meeting in the dead of night, and though we were all in a state of shock it was decided by everyone that we’d make it look like an accident. The council would use it anyway to poke their noses in, but if there was a hint of murder, the investigations would never end and we could all find ourselves booted back to the mainland. The baby was given whiskey to knock him out and his charred head was wrapped in wool grease and bandages.
I told Mam I wanted to keep the baby and all agreed that we couldn’t let him be taken off the island, but Nora and the others said it was a woman’s job to raise a child and she’d do it, until Mam spoke up for me. ‘Nora Duggan,’ she said, ‘you have your man and your boys, but there is no wife for my Tom and he needs someone.’ I’ll never know for sure if she knew. Nora was a wonderful help to me all through the years, but Conor was mine.
Owen came back in the morning with the story that Delia was on the mainland, crying for Martin. We told Owen the truth and then sent him back to the mainland with the lie we had all agreed upon.
Thank God for the storm that blew up then, because it gave us three days to fix everything so that by the time the guards and the doctor arrived, the charred remains of Martin, Loretta, Aidan and Brian were so fused and fragmented that nobody could tell that Conor was missing.
There was always something wrong and twisted about that girl. She killed every single member of her family, including my lover and the man I thought of as my son.
36
James sat opposite me, his head in his hands. His scarring was not as bad as he had led me to believe and nowhere near as bad as my brother’s. I noticed the contraption strapped to his arm that gave him the appearance of fingers on his left hand, but I could see the red line of seams around his mouth, across his neck, on one wrist. His bushy hair was brushed forward, I assume covering the absence of ears. Not much flesh was exposed, but what I could see was patchwork, like a scarecrow.
Tom asked me, ‘What did you do to Conor?’
I reached into my bag to t
ake out the dribble of vodka that was left in the bottle, but he snatched it from my hands. I wondered why he hadn’t called the guards. And then I realized. There has always been justice, and then island justice.
Tom took another photo off the wall and put it in front of me. In this photo, Tom was older and he had his arm around Conor, hideous-looking Conor, his head warped, but his eyes warm and dancing with a smile that the hole in his face could not manage. I couldn’t look at the photo without feeling repulsed.
‘That’s your brother,’ he roared at me.
‘My uncle,’ said James. ‘What happened? What did you do to him?’
I told them that I’d stabbed him in the neck because I’d been terrified. I said I thought he wanted to kill me. I started talking and couldn’t stop. It poured out of me.
I told them about my entire life: my childhood, my love for my daddy, my exile from the island, my days in the orphanage, my adoption in Westport, my romance with Harry, my pregnancy with Peter, my shotgun wedding in London, the drinking, the fire, my sobriety, France, my violent boyfriend, Freddie my saviour, my operation that left me isolated and friendless all over again. My attempts to make everything work and how nothing had.
As I recounted the story, they stared at me. Before I got to the end, Tom put his head down and began to sob. It was strange to see a big man like him, shuddering and wailing.
‘Can you even hear yourself?’ he hissed. ‘You are the devil, there’s no other word for it. I knew it when you were a girl. You never cared about your mother, or any of your brothers. You lied to your father about me. You killed them all.’
‘But I didn’t know –’
‘Oh, you knew all right. Every child knows right from wrong, but you were tied to wrong, wedded to it. You only ever cared about yourself.’
‘Daddy loved –’
‘You stupid fucking bitch!’ Tom was roaring again now. ‘Your father loved the island, and he loved me. You were the only girl on the island. You were the brood mare. That’s why he made a pet of you. Do you think he’d have cared if you’d been a boy? He didn’t love you, he loved your potential to be a mother.’
I didn’t want to hear what he was saying.
‘Conor was the only connection I had to your father. I loved him as much as if he were my own son.’
James lifted his head and spoke to Tom. ‘She wouldn’t understand that. She doesn’t love her own son. She tried to abort me. And then she walked away from me and –’
He turned back to face me. ‘Wait, why would you think that Conor would hurt you?’ His eyes darkened as the truth dawned on him. ‘Oh my God, you thought Conor was me, didn’t you?’
Anger took over. ‘Yes!’ I shrieked it at the top of my lungs.
I bolted towards the door, but they picked me up and dragged me into a small utility room and I heard the lock turn behind them. I was trapped. I heard them talking but could not make out their words. I had no food, but I drank water from the taps in a large sink beside a washing machine. I didn’t bang on the door. What would have been the point? Nobody knew I was here, and who would want to rescue me? I found some rough, paint-spattered blankets and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. Their voices disappeared and doors slammed and I wondered if they had gone out or gone to bed. I could not think how they were going to punish me, but I knew that I would have been wiser to have gone straight to the police.
When the great silence eventually descended, I was able to hear the sea and it was the kind of noise I remembered from my childhood and I was momentarily comforted. Hours later, I heard birdsong and knew it must be dawn. Shortly afterwards, I heard their footsteps. The door was pulled open. I cried and apologized again. James told me to sit at the table. He made me a strong cup of tea and some buttered toast. Tom said nothing.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ I asked.
‘We’re taking you home.’
‘What?’
‘To Inishcrann.’
I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Even if there were few people left on the island now, they would not let James and Tom do me any real harm. James’s letters had said there were just old people there now. They would remember me. Yes, my people had a reputation for insanity, even cruelty, but these were not medieval times. They would not burn me at the stake.
We went outside around the back of the house. I could feel the salt stinging my face. At the end of the garden, we climbed down some rocks to a small cove. There on the sand, tied to an iron stake, was an inflatable boat, a rib, of the kind that used to take us from the harbour out to yacht parties in Monaco. The two men lifted it into the water, and gestured to me to get in. I climbed aboard and they pushed it out and jumped in themselves. Tom started the engine and diesel fumes plumed into the grey sky above us. We tore out of the cove into open sea.
I was freezing, but exhilarated. My son faced me. He wore a black woollen hat and a hood tied up around his head. His face was wet with sea spray, I thought, but I noticed his shoulders shudder and I realized he was crying. I held out my hand to him, and he paused for a moment before taking it with his good hand. He squeezed it, and I felt my first ever rush of affection towards him. There was no point in conversation because of the noise of the engine and the howling wind. I tried to communicate my feelings to him through my eyes and the touch of my hand, but he would not meet my gaze and looked away towards the Atlantic.
Soon, my island came into view. I felt the temperature drop and could see the lighthouse and the long stone visible at the top of the hill and knew that I’d soon be home. As the rib slowed into the harbour, I noticed there were no other boats, not even old wooden rowing boats. A metal grille blocked the old stone steps up to the pier. Tom steered the rib around the outside of it and aligned it with some rocks.
‘Get out,’ he said. I had no boots and knew my feet would be soaked, but I didn’t argue. I climbed out over the rocks and up on to the pier. The two men watched me from the rib.
‘You’re home!’ called James, and I could see his shoulders shuddering again. He used an oar to turn the rib around and soon the engine noise filled the air and they took off, out of the harbour. I wondered where they were going. To find a spot to tie up the rib? As they disappeared from view, I saw Tom reach out to put a consoling hand on my son’s shoulder.
I walked up the pier to the village and noticed something strange about the houses. As I got closer, I could see that every single one of them was boarded up, with large metal plates where their windows and doors should have been. The roofs were caved in. There was no sign of life. I went across the harbour to where old Biddy’s bar had been, but there was just a pile of rubble there, a broken bar stool sticking out of the detritus. I went up to the old schoolhouse to find that boarded up too. I started to feel panic.
Back in the harbour, I tried to force my way into one of the houses, but the iron shutters were welded into place and I had no tools to shift them.
I saw a tattered notice, covered in broken plastic, tied to a pole. It had FORMAL EVACUATION NOTICE printed on it, and a signature of a Mayo county councillor and the year 2017. It was only recent. When did James say he’d been here – three months ago?
I ran to all of the houses, along the roads I used to know like the lines of my own palm. The sound of the sea roared in my ears, but no dog barked, no sheep bleated, no generator churned. There was nobody here. I knew James and Tom would not come back for me. I walked the length and breadth of the island. There was nothing left of my old home at the west point, no sign that there had been a cottage, or a family or a sweet daddy who loved me above all else.
I howled into the wind and tried to shelter from it, but my clothing was no defence against its cruel blade. I knew where I had to go. I walked up the desolate hill to the abandoned lighthouse and to where, beside it, the long stone known as Dervaleen’s Bed stood proud. I lay down behind it and felt protection from the wind. And I felt Daddy’s strong arm reach up from beneath the sodden earth and hold me close.
Acknowledgements
My agent Marianne Gunn O’Connor has been in my corner from the start, and no writer could wish for a better warrior and cheerleader. Vicki Satlow does the same internationally. Pat Lynch assists them calmly and quietly with great good humour.
Huge thanks to the Penguin team. In Dublin, my superb editor Patricia Deevy compels me to refine, improve and structure my work using her critical eye and her straight-talking, and God knows I need that. Cliona Lewis and Patricia McVeigh are publicity ninjas, their assistant Aimée Johnston is endlessly kind, and the super sales team Carrie Anderson and Brian Walker make sure my books are in your shops. MD Michael McLoughlin is supportive in every way.
At Penguin in London, my thanks especially to MD Joanna Prior, to Amelia Fairney, Cat Mitchell and Rose Poole of the communications team, to Sam Fanaken and all of her colleagues on the sales team, and to Ellie Smith and Cat Hillerton, who make sure the book gets produced (literally).
Thanks to eagle-eyed copy-editor Caroline Pretty, who manages to make me look literate.
Most of my research for this novel was place-specific, so in chronological order of location appearance I must thank Paul Soye for checking and verifying all Westport information, Jennifer Davidson for her knowledge of Ballina, and Judith Gantley and Katherine Garnier for their expertise on the Côte d’Azur. I am deeply indebted to Patrick J. Murphy’s wonderful book An Art Lover’s Guide to the French Riviera.
