Secrets of the Lighthouse (14 page)

‘Your castle. I was with Johnny and Joe,’ she added hastily, keen to justify her presence at his castle. ‘I was helping out, you know . . .’

‘So, you want to go back?’

‘Yes, please. Just point the way. I’m sure I’ll manage.’ She was embarrassed to have been so foolish.

He laughed and shook his head. ‘I like your spirit, but I couldn’t let you walk all the way back to the castle, it’s further than you think and you look worn out. My house is
just around the corner. If you come with me, I’ll drive you back.’

Her heart began to pound. The thought of accompanying Conor Macausland to his house was surprisingly alarming. But she shrugged off her doubts and the little voice inside her head that told her
not to go anywhere with a stranger, let alone a man who might have killed his wife, and followed him back over the lip of the hill and down into the valley.

I know that look well. The way Conor’s lips curl up at the corners and his eyes grow intense and warm. They can be such a cold, icy blue. But there’s nothing like
the presence of a beautiful woman to thaw them into a softer, cerulean hue. He used to look at me with those gentle eyes, and when he did my resentment would melt away and I’d sink into a
blissful state of amnesia. I’d forget the rows and the accusations. I’d forget my loneliness and the gnawing hunger for love that was constantly craving. When he looked at me like that
I was satisfied.

Now his curiosity is aroused by this strange girl who is trespassing upon his land. She can barely keep up for the trembling in her legs. She’s afraid of him, but she doesn’t let it
show. Johnny and Joe Byrne have put the fear of God into her with their idle talk. She’s anxious about Magnum, too, who is more like a lion than a dog, and her allergy to horse dust is
already making her eyes water and her skin itch. Her beauty is masked by the flush on her cheeks and around her nose where she has been exposed to the cold, but I suppose Conor can see through
that. Like his hound who can smell a bitch a mile off, Conor can sense an attractive female, even when her hair has frizzed and her sensual body is hidden beneath a big coat.

He talks to her, asking her questions about herself. She answers cautiously, giving him little. The house comes into view and I can feel her relief as she sets eyes on it. I think she is much
wearier than she lets on. Reedmace House is a simple grey manor with white sash windows and an ordinary slate roof, and yet it has a certain charm. In summer the front is adorned with white
wisteria, and the garden is planted with apple trees. In spring the blossom is carried on the breeze like snow. When we lived in the castle Conor renovated it with the intention of giving it to his
parents. But his father died and his mother decided to stay in Dublin rather than live alone in a big, isolated house, miles from anywhere. So, it remained empty, like a lovely girl, all dressed up
with nowhere to go.

I love the stream that twists and turns down the valley, and I love the grey stone bridge, which is now partly overgrown with ivy. It was once used as a road when people used to travel by horse
and carriage. When cars became too heavy for it, they re-routed the way and the old dirt track was left to the mercy of trees and heather and the bridge to the trolls and goats of my imagination.
There’s something magical about it, as if it is part of a lost world you happen to stumble upon, quite by chance, and you almost feel as if you are stealing upon it, as if you shouldn’t
really be there. I am free now to linger as long as I want. Sometimes I see dancing lights, like little fairies, but they could just be the mischievous play of sunshine.

When they reach the house, Conor takes his horse round to the seventeenth-century stable behind. It is a weathered building with a generous-faced clock positioned above the archway which opens
like an embrace to welcome you. The clock hasn’t worked for years, centuries perhaps. It is stuck at a quarter to five and will probably always be. I like to think that something magical
happened at a quarter to five, a hundred years ago, which stopped the clock forever: something romantic and sad, like the death of a lover.

Ellen sits on the old stone steps built against the wall to make a mounting block, and smokes a cigarette. I can see that her hands are trembling. I am delighted that she smokes because Conor
detests the habit. While she inhales poison, Conor takes the horse inside and gives him to the son of the couple who look after the place while Conor is in Dublin. They are not from Ballymaldoon.
Conor was careful to find people who knew nothing of the scandal that surrounded my death. Meg and Robert are discreet; if they know anything they do not let on. Meg cleans and cooks while Robert
tends to the stables and the gardens. Their son, Ewan, is an eager boy of about nineteen, who readily plays with Finbar and Ida when they are down from the city for the school holidays. It is half
term and they have been building a camp out of rocks and wood. They are planning to make a fire and cook their own tea. If I were alive I would weave tales of enchantment and we’d sit beneath
blankets under the stars until it was time for bed. Finbar and Ida used to love my stories. Now they are older they would appreciate them all the more. But they have Daphne still and her reading
has not improved with the years. I must be grateful; they are loved.

‘You look cold and tired, Ellen,’ says Conor, standing over her with his hands on his hips. I noticed his hips when I first met him, the way his jeans hung low, accentuated by the
buckle of his belt. He is a tall man, with broad shoulders and long legs. He’s well made and athletic, and clothes hang well on him. Even now, when his unhappiness has led him to drink
excessively, he has not lost his form. He likes the look of this girl. But he has liked the look of many girls, and taken them to his bed, only to discard them in the morning like the bottles of
wine which alleviated his pain only temporarily.

Now he smiles down at her. His face transforms when he smiles. His mouth is generous and sensual, and the way it turns up at the corners makes him look devilishly handsome. When I was alive he
didn’t have a beard, but he has developed a certain laziness about his appearance now and cannot be bothered to cut his hair or shave. It is an outward reflection of his deep unhappiness, as
if there is little point to life now that I am gone.

He turns his warm blue eyes on her and she cannot resist. She smiles back, her reservations dissolving in the bright light of his charisma. I know how she feels; I have been there, too. But she
mustn’t think it will last. Many have been attracted to him, like little ladybirds to sunshine, and they have all felt the chill of disappointment when he turns away and they are plunged into
shade. Only I was constant; when he turned away from me he always came back.
Always
. Even though I am dead, I bask in the eternal sunshine of his love.

‘Come inside and I’ll make you some tea to warm you up,’ he says.

‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble.’ She stubs out her cigarette and gets to her feet.

He grins, as if she couldn’t possibly be trouble to anyone. ‘It’s no trouble, really. To be honest, I could do with one myself.’ They walk to the house and enter through
the back door. The children are in the kitchen with Daphne. They have just finished their tea. When they see Magnum they jump down from the table and rush over to cuddle him. Ellen looks amazed
that anyone would dare put their arms around such a large beast. But Magnum is very gentle. The children miss him when they are in the city and I don’t doubt that Magnum misses them as well,
but he is too big to take with them.

‘Mother, meet Ellen, Peg Byrne’s niece,’ says Conor. ‘And those two meerkats are my children, Finbar and Ida.’

‘How do you do, Ellen,’ says Daphne, and she frowns, wondering where Conor picked up this unfamiliar girl with the well-to-do English accent. ‘You can call me Daphne,’
she adds as Ellen stifles a sneeze. The girl’s eyes are now puffy and watering incessantly. Finbar whispers something to his sister and they both giggle behind their hands.

‘My dear, you look like you’re allergic to something,’ says Daphne kindly.

‘Horses,’ Ellen replies.

‘Let me get you an antihistamine. Finbar gets hay fever in the summer so we’ll have some in the medicine cupboard.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t usually have such an adverse effect on women,’ Conor jokes. Ellen laughs and sneezes again. A moment later Daphne returns with a pill.

‘I’ll make you both a cup of tea. You look freezing, the two of you.’

‘I found Ellen on the hill,’ says Conor, sitting down at the kitchen table.

‘I got lost,’ the girl explains.

‘No wonder you’re cold. Why don’t you take off your boots and coat and come and sit down? Are you hungry? Have you had anything to eat?’

‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Well, I’ll put some food on the table and you can make yourself a sandwich, should you wish.’

Daphne is happy to have company. She is keen for her son to move on. I would tell her not to waste her energy. Conor is never going to move on. It’s been five years. Still, she is ever
hopeful. She puts food on the table and cups of tea. Ellen puts her pink hands around the mug and hunches over it like a street beggar over a cup of coins. She said she wasn’t hungry, but she
soon makes herself a ham sandwich and bites into it ravenously. Conor is always hungry. Men seem never to be satisfied. He cuts himself some cheese and a large wedge of bread and tucks into them as
if he hasn’t eaten for weeks. The food recharges them both. They share their meal while Finbar and Ida play with the dog and interrupt their father with questions, and Daphne makes herself a
cup of tea while Meg appears and discreetly clears away the children’s dinner.

‘You know, I would never take you for a Byrne,’ says Conor, narrowing his eyes and looking her over. She has taken off her coat and his gaze rests a moment on the swell of her bosom
beneath her sweater.

‘Probably because I’ve spent all my life in London,’ she replies.

‘That would account for your English accent. You don’t sound anything like them.’

‘That’s what
they
say. My father’s English and my mother lost her Irish accent.’

He arches an eyebrow. ‘Your mother married an Englishman. The family must have loved that.’ He glances at his mother, because she is an Englishwoman who married an Irishman, though
at least she was Catholic.

‘I don’t think it went down very well at all. My father’s Protestant but I was brought up Catholic, of course.’

‘So, how long are you staying?’ Daphne asks. My mother-in-law is a sculptor, and eccentric as artists usually are. She is wearing wide khaki trousers, purple trainers and a bright
floral scarf hanging over her thick jersey. She has artist’s hands – rough and encrusted with old clay.

Ellen likes Daphne, I can tell. I liked her too, at first, before she interfered.

‘I don’t know right now,’ Ellen replies. ‘I have no plans. I came to write a novel, so I suppose I’ll stay a while. Besides, I really like it here. I feel at home
already even though this is only my third day.’

‘That’s Connemara for you,’ says Daphne with a big smile. She fell in love with it, too.

Ellen smiles back. ‘That’s what everyone says.’

‘They’re right,’ Conor agrees. ‘I came here once on location and ended up buying the castle.’ He laughs as if he now thinks his impulsiveness absurd.

‘Are you working on any films at the moment?’ Ellen asks. I could tell her that he hasn’t the will. That since my death he hasn’t produced a single film, but Conor
shrugs.

‘There are things in the pipeline,’ he lies and his mother buries her face in her teacup. She knows the truth. He’s in the pub in Dublin when he should be in the office, and
he’s whacking balls against the walls of the squash court to vent his frustration. His restlessness is rootless, like sycamore seeds on the wind with nowhere to settle.

‘I suppose the film business is hard with the recession and everything,’ says Ellen.

He cuts another chunk of bread. ‘A good story is always a good story but they’re like precious stones, very hard to find. There’s a lot of rubbish out there.’

‘I came here for inspiration,’ says Ellen and her eyes light up. ‘I have to tell you, I’m
incredibly
inspired. It’s the beauty, it does something to a
person.’ She thumps her chest where her heart is. ‘Right here.’

‘That’s very true, Ellen. Beauty is the most inspiring thing on earth,’ Daphne concurs. She brings her mug of tea and joins them at the table. ‘When Conor’s father
was alive we spent every spring in France. The bougainvillea was spectacular and those darling town squares with their little park benches and fountains were so delightful. I was never short of
inspiration. But nowhere is as inspiring as Connemara. I think my best work has been done down here. Perhaps yours will be, too.’

Conor doesn’t speak. I know he would like to tell them that Connemara reminds him of me and that since my death the place gives him no pleasure. If it wasn’t for the children, who
love it so much, he probably wouldn’t be here at all. But for some reason he hasn’t sold the castle or the estate. Perhaps he keeps them to remain connected to me, so that he and our
children have something of me that they can touch. If only they knew the truth: that I am here in the breeze that blows about the castle walls and the troll’s bridge, in the sunshine that
warms their faces as they search for firewood to build their fires and stones to construct their camps. I am on the beach and in the hills. I am with them, always. If only they knew that.

Ellen doesn’t tell them that she has seen my portrait hanging in the castle hall. Conor is a formidable man and although he smiles with charm and appraises her with interest, she must
discern that he is quick to anger. He has a darkness in his eyes in spite of the humour in his smile. I’ve always loved that about him. He’s the kind of man who is impossible to tame. I
did my best, but I didn’t succeed. I admit that now; it is my greatest failing, besides my death