Secrets of the Lighthouse (4 page)

‘There was a Mr Peg a long time ago, but we went our separate ways.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, don’t be. I have my youngest son and my brothers to look after me.’

‘One can never tell whether or not a marriage is going to last. Mum and Dad seem happy enough, but there’s no guarantee.’

‘Well, you never know what life is going to throw at you and how you’re going to react. Some things bring you closer while others set you apart.’

‘Do you ever see your ex?’

‘No, he emigrated to America. The boys go and visit him, of course. He married again, a much younger woman, and had a little . . .’ She paused and took a long drag. ‘A little
girl,’ she said softly, and her voice broke as if those words had caused her pain. ‘Well, she won’t be little now. Still, he’s got no reason to come back.’

Ellen noticed the air change in the car. It grew suddenly heavy with sorrow as if the damp from outside had come in through the open window. Ellen felt sorry for her aunt, for she had obviously
been very hurt when her husband married again and started another family. ‘Tell me about your boys,’ she said cheerfully, changing the subject.

Peg smiled and the atmosphere lifted. ‘Well, they’re good boys,’ she began. ‘Dermot, Declan and Ronan. Dermot and Declan are married with children and come and visit from
time to time, but Ronan, well, he’s still in Ballymaldoon and doesn’t look likely to settle down any time soon.’

As they drove into the heart of Connemara, Ellen let her aunt rattle on about her sons. She watched the landscape change and the beauty of it took her by surprise. She found herself drawn to the
wild, sweeping landscape of rocky mountains and wet valleys, where rivers trickled through the heather and ruined stone dwellings stood like skeletons on the hillsides, exposed to the wind and
mists that rolled in from the sea. There was something melancholic about the sheer vastness of the wilderness, as if human beings had been defeated by its untameable nature and thrown up their
hands in despair, abandoning their homes to seek a safer existence in the towns and cities. There were no pylons, few telephone masts, little but the long, straight road that cut through the bogs
and long grasses, and the rugged hills that rose up into the sky, their peaks disappearing into cloud. Ellen had never seen anything quite like it and watched in fascination and fear as the
civilized urban world with which she was familiar was replaced by this defiantly silent land.

At last they drove down the valley into the town of Ballymaldoon and Ellen caught sight of the ocean twinkling in the distance, as vast and untameable as the Connemara landscape. Aunt Peg would
have driven around the town were it not for her niece, who she felt would enjoy a brief viewing. ‘Not that there’s much to see,’ she remarked as they motored down a quiet street
of pastel-coloured houses neatly positioned in a line behind stone walls and shrubbery. The town was dominated by a large Gothic church which sat regally on an incline, shielded by tall sycamore
trees and rock. ‘I don’t go to church,’ said Peg. ‘Father Michael thinks I’m ungodly. He’s wrong, of course; I feel God with me all the time, but that priest
irritates the hell out of me, always has done. It’s as simple as that. So you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It’s all the same to me.’

‘Mother goes to Mass every morning in London, would you believe,’ said Ellen.

‘Oh, I would. But I don’t think God has a great deal to do with it.’ They both laughed.

‘Ah, a pub, now things are looking up,’ Ellen exclaimed as Peg slowed down alongside the Pot of Gold. ‘Is it any good?’

‘Full of locals and family. I prefer the quiet life, myself. But the boys will take you, if you like.’

‘Your sons?’

‘No, I mean my brother, Johnny, and his eldest son, Joe. Johnny is estate manager up at the castle and Joe works for him. I think Johnny and Joe can be found at the bar most evenings. Go
with them. Joe will introduce you to everyone you need to know. Like I said, you have loads of cousins. They don’t all live here in Ballymaldoon, of course, but there are plenty who do.
You’ll be amused by the Pot of Gold. I think you’ll find a few characters for your novel in there.’ She chuckled to herself, as if she already had a few in mind.

Peg drove down to the harbour, where fishing boats were tethered to the quay or tied to buoys, a little way out. Mounds of lobster pots were piled on the stones and one or two rugged-looking
fishermen in thick jerseys and caps sat smoking and chatting as they mended their nets. A skinny mongrel lay on the cobbles, shivering in the cold. Ellen thought it wouldn’t be long before
the men set off to the Pot of Gold for a Guinness and the dog for a warm place beside the fire. Ballymaldoon was a pretty little town but there were obviously no decent shops to tempt her. Just as
well, she thought, for she hadn’t saved much money and she couldn’t ask her parents after the note she had left them. She had certainly burnt her bridges in that respect. She wondered
how long it would be before she suffocated down here in Nowhere and returned to London, gasping for excitement like a fish out of water, repentant and compliant. As pretty as it was, there was
evidently not a lot going on.

Aunt Peg drove on through the town and out the other side. A mile or so further down the coast she took a turning onto a farm track and motored up the hill between grey stone walls and lush
green pastures dotted with sheep, until they reached a pair of modest white farmhouses at the top. ‘It’s not much but it’s home,’ she said cheerfully, drawing up in front of
the cottage on the left. Ellen was disappointed. She had rather assumed her aunt would have a bigger house. But it was quaint and picturesque with a high thatched roof into which little dormer
windows had been cut and painted red to match the door. There were no trees to protect it from the elements, only the low stone wall, and Ellen imagined it had been built stout and sturdy in order
to withstand the ferocious winter winds.

The house might have been a disappointment, but when she stepped out and turned around, the view took her breath away. There, twinkling through the evening mist, was the ocean, and right in the
middle, looming out of the twilight like a phantom, were the charred remains of a ruined lighthouse. She stood a moment and watched it. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the sparkling lights
of Ballymaldoon could be seen way off to the right, blending with the first stars that peeped through the cloud. Slowly, the lighthouse faded as the night and fog closed in around it, and then it
was gone, as if it had never been there.

Ellen was drawn out of her gazing by the scampering sound of little paws. She turned to see Mr Badger, a black-and-white border collie, followed by a grunting ginger pig.

‘I hope you like animals,’ said Peg as she returned to the car to fetch Ellen’s suitcase.

‘Of course,’ Ellen replied, not knowing whether to pat the pig or run away.

‘Don’t be alarmed by Bertie, he’s a good boy and housetrained. See, he likes you,’ she added as Bertie thrust his nose between Ellen’s legs and grunted. Ellen
jumped back in panic. ‘Just stroke his ears, pet, he loves that.’ But Ellen ignored her aunt’s advice and hurried into the house.

Inside it was warm and cosy and smelt of damp dog. The hall was tiled with square grey stones, the walls painted a soft white, decorated with amateur watercolours of the sea. In the kitchen a
dusty brown beanbag lay against the island for Mr Badger. A straw mat was placed in front of the yellow Stanley stove that was pushed into the chimney breast beside a neat pile of small logs. Ellen
presumed that was Bertie’s bed, if pigs had beds. The sideboards were cluttered with mugs and utensils, pots for teabags, coffee and pens. An old-fashioned-looking teapot sat on the Stanley,
waiting to be boiled. Peg looked at the clock on the wall and smiled. ‘I suppose it’s too early for a wee drink. Would you like a cup of tea, pet? You must be hungry. I have ham and
freshly made soda bread.’ She opened the fridge. ‘I made stew for your tea, but how about a snack now? There’s nothing like a long journey to give you an appetite. Or would you
prefer to see your room first and freshen up?’

‘Yes, that would be nice, thank you,’ Ellen replied, watching Bertie trot into the kitchen and take his position on the straw mat.

‘Come on, then.’ Peg hauled her suitcase up the stairs in spite of Ellen’s protestations that she should carry it. ‘I’m as strong as an ox. This is nothing compared
to the sheep I’ve lifted.’

She opened the door into a floral-decorated bedroom with a low ceiling of old wooden beams, a big pine bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. Striding across the carpet, she opened the window to
let out a maddened fly that was buzzing against the glass. ‘You have a view of the sea.’

Ellen’s heart lifted. ‘With the lighthouse,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Peg replied, her voice wary.

‘It’s a ruin. I love ruins.’ She joined her aunt at the window.

‘That’s a very tragic one. A young mother died there five years back in a fire. Though what she was doing there at that time of night is nobody’s business.’

Ellen stared through the darkness but saw nothing. ‘How sad.’

‘Joe will tell you all about it. He’s full of it. The girl’s husband, Conor Macausland, moved out of the castle after she died into a smaller house on the estate, but Johnny
and Joe still work there, keeping the gardens nice. She was a very keen gardener.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There was talk that she was murdered.’

Ellen was horrified. ‘By who?’

‘Her husband.’ Peg closed the window and drew the curtains. ‘He was the prime suspect for a brief time. The guarda were all over the case like ants, but they found no evidence
whatsoever to prove that he did it. Some believe they found no evidence to suggest that he
didn’t
.’

‘How awful! What do you think?’

Peg sighed. ‘I think it was a tragic accident, but some people won’t be satisfied with that. They enjoy a bit of mystery and murder.’ She smiled wryly. ‘You see, it can
get a bit boring down here and people like to embellish things for entertainment. Personally, I like a quiet life.’ Peg walked towards the door. ‘Your bathroom’s down the
corridor, second door on the right. Don’t go opening the first door, mind, because Reilly’s asleep in there.’

‘Reilly?’

‘A squirrel I rescued just before Christmas. I couldn’t have been given a nicer present.’ She smiled fondly, as if speaking about a small child. ‘He’s been
hibernating in the laundry cupboard ever since. It’s warm beside the boiler so I thought he’d be cosy. He’ll wake up in a month or two and then I’ll try to tame him. If you
need clean sheets at all, ask me first because I know which shelf he’s on.’

Ellen smiled back casually, as if a squirrel in the laundry cupboard was a perfectly normal occurrence. ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Any other animals I should be aware of
?’

‘Not inside. Only mice and bats in the attic, but they won’t be bothering you. Bertie won’t come upstairs, but if you go into the kitchen in the middle of the night he might
fly at you thinking you’re an intruder. He rushed at Oswald when he was a little piglet and managed to fracture his leg, so imagine what he’d manage to break now!’

‘Who’s Oswald?’

‘My dear friend. You’ll love him. He rents my cottage next door and comes in most evenings to play cards.’

‘Does he help on the farm?’

Peg snorted a little like Bertie and laughed. ‘No, if you knew Oswald, you’d appreciate how funny that sounds! Oswald is a retired English gentleman who paints in a three-piece tweed
suit, no less. Those watercolours downstairs are his. They earn him enough to pay the rent but not much more. He does it for pleasure, I think. He’s a dear friend. You’ll like
Oswald.’ Her eyes sparkled as she said that and Ellen wondered whether she wasn’t a bit in love with this English gentleman.

‘I look forward to meeting him,’ said Ellen.

‘There’s a nice little sitting room downstairs for you to write in. I’ll light the fire and you can snuggle up in there while I’m out. Freshen yourself up now and come
down when you’re ready. I’ll wet the tea.’

Ellen pulled her telephone out of her handbag and switched it on. After a few moments it rang with two messages and two texts. Two were missed calls from her mother but Ellen
deleted the voicemails without listening to them. One text was from William:
Darling, what is this all about? I don’t understand. Please call me so we can discuss.
His coolness
didn’t surprise her at all. William was the type of upper-class Englishman who was rarely rattled by anything. He’d enjoyed an education that gave him a strong sense of entitlement and
the expectation that everything would work out well in the end. After all, it always had, so there was no reason for him to believe that Ellen’s sudden flight was any different. He was
probably rolling his eyes and sighing, ‘Women!’ in the same way his father shrugged off his mother’s foibles. The other text was from her best friend Emily:
OMG you’ve
really gone and done it! Your mother has called twice but I’m too scared to answer. What shall I say? Please call.
Ellen switched the phone off and walked over to the window. She flung
it open and breathed in the damp night air. A shiver rippled across her skin. She wasn’t sure whether it was caused by the cold or the excitement at having run away. It didn’t matter.
She felt free from duty at last. She had pleased her parents for the first thirty-three years of her life; now, finally, she was at liberty to please herself.

Downstairs, Peg was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspapers over bread and cheese. Ellen noticed a menacing-looking bird perched on the back of her chair. It was as
black as charcoal with eyes as pale as aventurine. ‘I suppose he’s another friend?’ she said, pulling out the chair as far away from the bird as possible.

‘Oh, yes, that’s my little jackdaw,’ Peg gushed. ‘I raised him from the egg and he’s lived with me ever since. I try to shoo him away but he always comes back.
There’s no getting rid of him.’ She laughed and Ellen knew that Peg didn’t really want him to fly away. ‘Would you like a cup of tea now?’