Secrets of the Lighthouse (35 page)

Dylan recovered his composure a little and began to cut up his food. ‘You can if you like. I’ve turned it into songs.’

‘I’d like to hear them.’

‘I’ll play you one or two tonight if you’re good.’

‘We can sing in harmony,’ she enthused.

‘I think we’re good at that,’ he replied, grinning at her fondly, and Ellen felt the prickly feeling dislodge and eventually disappear.

Ellen returned to the shop after lunch. Alanna laughed when she told her that she’d had lunch with Dylan. ‘It’s a right romance,’ she teased.

‘Oh, really, Alanna, there’s definitely no romance with Dylan!’

‘Don’t worry, I’m only messing with you. I know where your heart really lies.’

‘I’m sure Desmond had a great deal to say about
that
.’

Alanna shrugged. ‘Desmond has a lot to say about most things. Ignore him. It’s none of his business anyway.’

‘Conor’s a good man,’ said Ellen firmly. ‘He’s certainly not a murderer.’

‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’

‘I do.’

‘Good. Now, would you price up some stock for me? I had a delivery while you were out.’

‘I’m happy to put my hand to anything.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Alanna pushed a box into the centre of the shop. ‘You’re doing me a big favour, Ellen. I don’t know what I’d have done without
you.’

‘And you’re doing
me
a favour. I can’t sponge off Aunt Peg for ever. I’d like to contribute.’

‘Oh, she’s not minding about that.’

‘I know, which makes me all the keener to pay her something.’ She watched Alanna run a knife along the top of the box to open it. ‘Oswald pays her in pictures when he
can’t pay the rent. I’d like to give her something, too.’

‘You can share your royalties when you get your book published.’

Ellen thought of the blank page on her laptop. ‘I’m not sure she’ll live that long.’ She laughed. ‘I’m not sure
I’ll
live that long.’

‘Have you written anything yet?’

She smiled guiltily. ‘Not a word.’

‘Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll get going soon.’

‘I hope so.’

‘If you wait for inspiration it might never come. Why don’t you just start?’ It sounded so simple. Alanna didn’t realize how hard it was to ‘just start’.

‘You’re right, Alanna. I’ll do that. Now, what’s in the box?’

That evening, Ellen left Oswald, Peg, Ronan and Joe playing a rubber of bridge in the sitting room and drove Peg’s car to Dylan’s. She had clear instructions to
drive down to the quay where she’d see Dylan’s pale-blue house sandwiched between a primrose-yellow house and an almond-pink one, a stone’s throw from the Pot of Gold. Joe had
quipped about Dylan being drunk so often that it was a miracle he hadn’t wandered off the quay and drowned in the sea. But Ellen hadn’t yet seen him drunk and rolled her eyes at
Joe’s teasing. She had grown fond of Dylan and no longer found her cousin’s jokes about him amusing.

She drove into Ballymaldoon and parked the car on the quay in front of Dylan’s pretty blue house. Little boats bobbed about on the sea, which glittered in the light of a crescent moon, and
a black cat slunk along the side of the wall, his eyes shining through the darkness like yellow flames. She inhaled the refreshing scent of ozone and sighed with pleasure at the lapping sound of
the sea and the sight of the navy sky, twinkling with the occasional star. She could just make out the lighthouse. It looked melancholy, like a night-watchman contemplating the long hours until
dawn, or gazing out to sea, mulling over regrets. She couldn’t imagine Caitlin jumping to her death and Conor watching her body breaking on the rocks beneath, for the beauty rendered it
benign. Beauty rendered everything benign, even her own fears.

She didn’t miss London. She didn’t miss the noise of traffic and the orange glow of a city that was never dark. The quietness of Ballymaldoon appealed to her. She had never seen
stars so bright or an ocean so vast. The fact that Conor was part of this romantic place made her love it all the more. She smiled as she thought of him. They had spoken at various times throughout
the day. At one point, he’d called just to hear her voice, hanging up after less than a minute because he had to go into a meeting. Afterwards, she had held the telephone to her chest, as if
his essence was somehow contained within it. When they weren’t speaking, they were texting. Conor’s texts were both erotic and affectionate and she couldn’t wait for the weekend
when they’d be together again.

With those happy thoughts she rang Dylan’s bell. He opened the door almost immediately. A light-brown mongrel slipped through his legs and began to sniff her ankles excitedly. ‘He
can smell Mr Badger, I suspect,’ said Dylan.

‘I didn’t know you had a dog.’

‘Finch. He’s a good boy. Martha and I fight over him and she usually wins.’

‘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?’

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.