Secrets of the Lighthouse (29 page)

‘I hear you spent the day with Dylan yesterday,’ said Peg, as she dabbed the donkey’s eye with a dry cloth. ‘Johnny and Joe dropped by this morning on the way to work.
You were asleep so I didn’t bother to wake you. You must have found him on your walk because Craic said you both stumbled into the pub as wet as dogs.’

Ellen marvelled at the efficiency of the Ballymaldoon grapevine. ‘Yes, I found him in the little chapel on the hill. You know the one?’

‘I most certainly do. Caitlin Macausland is buried there.’

‘He was playing the guitar. You know, he’s amazing. He’s really good.’

Peg laughed, but not in the way the others laughed. Her laugh was full of affection. ‘So, he sang to you, did he?’

‘Yes. I guessed it was a song he composed for Mother.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘He’s going to teach me to play the guitar like him. You know he played the accordion last night and got everyone singing.’

‘So I hear. I’m glad he’s coming out of himself. I think it’s the drink, or lack of. Craic says he’s sobered up.’

‘Well, he certainly wasn’t drunk when we were in the chapel and he didn’t drink at lunch.’

‘That’s good. There, donkey’s better now.’ She rubbed him under his chin until he stuck out his top lip with pleasure. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you?
Yes, you’ll live.’

‘He’s taken my iPod away to input a new playlist to help me write my book.’

‘You still haven’t started?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Really, Ellen, are you ever going to write a word?’

‘I’m a little distracted.’

‘You’ll never write if you don’t sit at that desk. Write anything, it doesn’t matter, but for goodness sake make a start, or you’ll be an old woman before you
finish it.’

Ellen grinned. ‘There’s too much going on.’

‘Well, I think it’s grand that you and Dylan are getting along. I’m not sure what your mother would think of it, but
I
think it’s grand. He’s a good man,
Dylan, with a big heart, and he’s certainly got a soft spot for you.’

‘I think he likes to be with me because I’m a link to his Maddie.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right. You make him very happy. Craic said that the
old
Dylan came back last night. He was playing tunes and everyone was singing just like in the
old days.’

‘Before Mum ran away.’

‘Yes. Everything changed after that.’ Peg untied the donkey and led him back into the field where she let him go, with a carrot.

‘Aunt Peg, can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’ Peg picked up the bowl of antiseptic water and waited expectantly.

‘Dylan used to call Mum Ellen Olenska.’

Peg looked at her blankly. ‘Ellen Olenska, why?’

‘She’s the heroine in the novel I’m reading. Edith Wharton’s
The Age of Innocence
.’

‘Oh.’ Peg had clearly never heard of the book.

‘Mum called
me
Ellen.’

Peg looked surprised. ‘Oh.’

‘It’s rather romantic, don’t you think? I was named after Dylan’s special nickname for her.’

‘Well, it’s a bit surprising, isn’t it?’ said Peg, a little bewildered.

‘Mum was still thinking of Dylan when I was born. She might have run away, but her heart was obviously still here in Connemara.’

‘I dare say it was.’ Peg lifted her chin. ‘Well, she could always have come back,’ she added defiantly.

‘Could she?’

‘As a married woman, she most certainly could.’ Peg carried the bowl inside.

Ellen followed her. ‘Maybe she didn’t trust herself,’ she went on.

‘What do you mean?’ Peg poured out the water and placed the empty bowl in the sink to be washed up.

‘She didn’t trust herself to see Dylan again. Perhaps she was frightened she’d want him back.’

‘Oh, that’s nonsense. She knew what she was doing when she ran off with her English lord.’

‘But what if she later regretted it?’

‘You can’t say that about your own father, Ellen,’ Peg retorted firmly.

‘I’m not suggesting that they’re not happy
now
. I’m just wondering whether Mum ran off because she was pregnant with me, but then had a moment of regret when I
was born. Otherwise she would have called me something else.
Anything
else but Ellen. Don’t you see? She must have held a candle for Dylan.’

‘She probably just liked the name.’ Peg shrugged uneasily.

‘No, I think it’s more than that. One day, I’m going to ask her.’

Peg shook her head. ‘Rather you than me, pet. I think you might have to take this whole episode of your life to the grave.’ But both women knew that that simply wasn’t
possible. Ellen was in too deep ever to extricate herself completely.

‘I feel Irish, Aunt Peg,’ she insisted. ‘My mother can’t hide what’s in my genes.’

‘No, I don’t suppose she can. Now, why don’t I wet the kettle and make us some tea.’

That night, Ellen lay in bed chatting to Conor. He sounded so close that if she closed her eyes she could imagine him lying next to her. Their conversation was so full of
nonsense that when she hung up she couldn’t remember what they had talked about – only the sweet feeling of having been caressed by his softly spoken words remained warm upon her
skin.

When she switched off the light she lay watching the sliver of silver that sliced through the gap in the curtains, and thought about her mother. She would have heard the same roar of the sea,
the same moaning of the wind, the same nocturnal rustlings as Ellen heard now. How much she must have changed since her youth here in Connemara. How dramatically her life must have been transformed
when she married Anthony Trawton and moved into No. 12 Eaton Court. Had she thrown herself into her metamorphosis with such determination and grit that she had somehow lost herself in the process?
Was the wild and playful Maddie Byrne still in there somewhere, or had she suffocated her on purpose by denying her air?

It is one thing communicating with sheep, but quite another communicating with humans when they cannot even sense that I am there. I realize that all creatures have a sixth
sense, but humans have become so distracted by the concerns of the material world that they have lost their psychic ability. It is all about focus. If you concentrate hard on your left arm, you
quickly become unaware of your right, or indeed of any other part of you. In fact, you can focus so intently that you
become
your arm. Humans are so focused on their physical form that
they have forgotten who they really are. I’m not sure how I know these things; I just do. Possibly because my strange situation has given me perspective. I realize now how fragile and
transient the human body is and how our intelligence survives beyond it. I wonder whether animals know it, too, instinctively.

And so I am determined to let Ida and Finbar know that I am here, watching them grow up, celebrating their triumphs and wrapping them in love when things do not work out as they would like. I am
here, always, as a mother should be. I have practised on the sheep; now I will see if I can get my children’s attention. I don’t care how long it takes; it is not like I have anything
else to do.

I know that I could be capable of rattling doorknobs and blowing out candles; after all, other spirits manage it so why should I be any different? But as hard as I try I am unable to affect
material things, even when I focus with all my energy. I tire quickly, but I am sure with practice I will grow stronger. I stroked the sheep, didn’t I?

I watch little Ida as she sleeps. Her face is white in the moonlight, her skin as translucent as the petals of a lily. She breathes softly and her eyelashes flutter as she dreams. I run my
fingers down her cheek as I did with the sheep, although I feel nothing. I will her to wake and see me in the semi-darkness as Finbar once did, but she does not stir. I try Finbar; after all, he
has already seen me once, so I know he is capable of seeing me again. But he doesn’t stir, either. The two of them sleep so soundly. If only one of them would open their eyes, I’m sure
I could communicate with them.

I don’t give up. I am sure that with practice I will manage to make them aware of my presence. I stare into their faces, I tell them over and over that I am with them and always will be. I
am their mother; they are a part of me. My love binds me to them and it is indestructible.

By morning, I am overwhelmed with frustration and despair. Now I am sure that I have the possibility of communicating with them, my failure to do so is all the more heartbreaking. I feel
wretched and helpless.

And then, to my astonishment, Finbar announces at breakfast that he dreamed of me last night. Conor has already left for Connemara so it is just Daphne and the children who are at the town house
in Dublin. ‘Was it a nice dream?’ Daphne asks.

‘She was by my bed, telling me that she is with me and always will be,’ he says and I feel a shift in my consciousness, as if I have suddenly been infused with light. I feel
weightless and dizzy with joy.

‘That is a nice dream,’ Daphne agrees. ‘I’m sure she is with you, sweetheart.’

‘I’d like to have a dream like that,’ says Ida, her face long and sad.

‘Once, when you were a little boy, you woke up and said that you saw your mother sitting on the end of your bed. Do you remember?’ Daphne says to Finbar. He shakes his head and pops
a piece of toast and jam in his mouth. ‘I think your mother is an angel watching over you both.’

‘I think she is, too,’ Ida agrees.

Finbar isn’t so sure. ‘No, she’s not an angel, she’s still Mam,’ he says firmly and I love him all the more for knowing what I am.

My whole being vibrates with happiness. I dance about the kitchen and it doesn’t matter that they can’t see me, because I know now that I can break into my son’s dreams. With
perseverance perhaps I’ll break into Ida’s, too. I wonder whether Conor is so distracted by Ellen that he will be deaf to my subtle attempts to communicate with him.

With that thought I turn my attention to Ellen and I find myself at Peg’s house. Dawn has flooded the hills with a pale, liquid light and gulls are collecting in droves upon the island
where I died, for the tide is out and there is food trapped in the little pools and on the rocks. The lighthouse looms eerily out of the morning mist like a ship limping home after a battle at sea
and I remember the moment I climbed her mast and threw myself onto her deck as if it wasn’t me but someone else, demented with jealousy and drunk on love.

Today, of course, is the day that Conor is coming down to see Ellen, so it is no wonder that the girl is excited. My happiness drains away as I face the young woman who has set out to steal my
husband’s heart away from me. If she thinks she can win him, she is wrong. I will not let it happen. I will do everything in my power to prevent it. Whatever it takes.

As my thoughts turn black so I lose the bright, fizzy feeling in my soul. How quickly my vibration changes from fast to slow and with the slowing down I feel the world around me sink into
shadow. But all I can think of is Conor and my children and how I long for things to go back to the way they were before I died. I could be different, I know I could. With the knowledge that I have
now I know that I could change. I wouldn’t make the mistakes I made. If only I had a second chance. If only I could tell him that I haven’t left him, that although he cannot see me I am
still here, loving him from another dimension. He doesn’t need anyone else but me.

And so I trail Ellen like a dark and heavy shadow. As happiness makes her step lighter, my vengeful heart makes me as dense as fog. She sits in the sitting room, beside the fire, reading a novel
while Bertie snoozes on the rug at her feet, grunting in his sleep. I wander around Peg’s house and nearly scare the jackdaw out of his feathers, so that he flies out of the window and
doesn’t return. I am full of jealousy and resentment. I focus on the doorknob, trying with all my might to rattle it, but nothing happens besides the energy I lose in that futile and
frustrating activity.

I expect to see Ciara, but she is not here. I assume she is with Peg. It is a relief because I would be ashamed for that sweet and loving spirit to see me as I am now, so full of hate.

When Conor’s car motors up the drive Ellen is at the kitchen window. She has been waiting here for over an hour. The hour before that was spent in her bedroom trying on all her clothes.
Not that she has brought many from London. She has chosen a knee-length, hippy-style floral dress, which she has unbuttoned to her breasts, and a teal-coloured little cashmere cardigan. She has
long, slim legs with elegant ankles which she now shows off to their best advantage, although she is wearing black tights and purple velvet ballet pumps, which I would have advised her against, had
I her best interests at heart. Her hair is long and shiny and falls in waves over her shoulders. Conor likes women with lots of hair. He used to love
my
hair. He loved the colour, red like
a fox, and the silky way it slipped through his fingers. I doubt he’s going to think of that now, when he’s running his fingers through Ellen’s.

I watch with distaste as she opens the door and stands there a moment, waiting for the car to stop and Conor to climb out. She is smiling broadly, but I can see that her body is trembling, like
a racehorse in the starting block. The adrenalin makes her cheeks burn and she takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves. I see Conor’s white teeth through the car window. He is
smiling, too. After having not smiled for five years, he seems to be doing a very good job making up for it. He opens the door and steps out. Encouraged by his grin, Ellen runs to him and throws
herself into his arms. He hugs her tightly and lifts her off the ground so that her feet in those dainty purple shoes are kicking the air. They are like the wagging tail of a happy dog. He buries
his head in her neck and swings her round. Then her feet touch the ground and they kiss. A long and passionate kiss, and this time, Ellen isn’t overwhelmed by his ardour. She presses her body
against his and winds her arms around his waist, beneath his jacket, absorbing his passion with eagerness and responding in kind.