Secrets of the Lighthouse (27 page)

Ellen stood up. ‘Oh, hello, Dylan,’ she replied, hand on heart. ‘You gave me a fright.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.’

‘What are you doing here?’

He put his hands in his coat pockets and swept his eyes over the sea. ‘I like the peace. No one bothers me in this chapel. I find it inspiring.’ Then he gazed at her, his brown eyes
smiling warmly. ‘I’ve always loved the romance of ruins.’

‘Me too,’ she replied. ‘I just stumbled upon this one.’

‘Caitlin Macausland loved it, too. I used to bump into her from time to time, just sitting up here in a pew, contemplating life.’

‘Is that what
you
do, too?’

‘I suppose I do. I write, as well. Some of my best poetry was written right here, with this view. I think you’d find it inspiring, too.’

‘I know I would. No one uses it now, I don’t suppose.’

‘No, the last time it was used was at Caitlin’s funeral, and that was five years ago. I don’t think it had been used for a hundred years before that.’

‘Sad.’

‘All ruins are sad. They’re like shells, hinting at the life they once housed, but giving little away. They arouse our curiosity. We want to know more.’ He pulled out a packet
of cigarettes and popped one in his mouth. Shielding it from the wind, he flicked his lighter and lit it. ‘Want one?’

‘No thanks, I’m trying to give up.’

‘Good on you.’ He blew a puff of smoke into the damp air.

‘So, why is she buried here and not in Ballymaldoon?’ Ellen asked.

‘Because she belongs in a romantic place like this. She wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in town. It was I who told her the story of the heartbroken sailor who built this little
chapel for his young wife who tragically died soon after they were wed. Caitlin loved the romance of it, even if it’s a load of old rubbish.’ He shrugged and gave a jaunty grin.
‘I don’t know. It’s a good story and she was the sort of woman who loved stories. Conor knew that better than anyone. The sailor’s wife is buried up at the top there.’
He pointed. ‘The sailor wanted her to keep watch over him when he was out at sea.’

‘Lovely idea.’

‘That’s what Caitlin thought, too.’

‘You knew her quite well, then?’

‘I don’t think you could ever
know
Caitlin Macausland well. I’m not sure that even her husband knew her well. There was something unfathomable about her. But she was
lonely in that castle when Conor was away, and would come up here from time to time and find me. She was grateful for someone to talk to.’

‘He obviously loved her. He’s still leaving her flowers five years later.’ Ellen tried to hide her disappointment. She had a strange feeling that Dylan had the ability to read
her thoughts just by looking into her eyes so she dropped her gaze.

‘Perhaps,’ Dylan replied. ‘The funny thing is that there are always roses up here.’

‘What’s funny about that?’

‘Well, Conor’s in Dublin most of the time, isn’t he?’

‘Perhaps he arranges for someone to put them here for him when he’s away.’

‘That’s a possibility. I happen to think it’s more mysterious than that.’

She smiled in response to the mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Are you a conspiracy theorist, Dylan?’

‘Just an old romantic.’

‘You think someone else loved her?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Who?’

He shook his head and took a long drag before blowing out the smoke like an old dragon. ‘I don’t want to go setting the cat among the pigeons,’ he answered finally.

Ellen recalled that he had seen someone rowing back to shore from the lighthouse the night Caitlin died and wished he’d tell her who he thought it was, but she knew it wouldn’t be
right as a newcomer to look too interested. ‘The plot thickens,’ was all she said, which closed the subject.

‘Come, do you want to see what I’ve been up to?’ He trod his cigarette butt into the grass then began to walk back towards the chapel.

‘OK,’ she replied, although she wasn’t in the least curious. She followed him inside. It was a classic chapel with a stone floor, wooden pews, glass windows cut into thick
walls, a carved wooden pulpit and a religious painting designed around the arch window behind the altar. The air was stale and cold as it always is in churches.

Dylan picked up his guitar from the front pew. ‘I’ve been composing,’ he said proudly.

‘So, you
have
been inspired.’

‘Very.’ He grinned broadly, as if he was guarding a wonderful secret.

‘Are you going to play me something?’

‘If you like.’ He sat down and put the guitar over his knee. Ellen sat in the opposite aisle and watched him strum a few chords and adjust the tuning pegs. The sound echoed around
the church. ‘I’ll play you one of my old ones,’ he suggested.

‘Why not the one you’ve been composing?’

‘Because it’s not ready.’

‘OK. Play me one of your old tunes then.’

‘It’s called “Lost to Me”.’

Ellen frowned. ‘I’m sad already and you haven’t even sung a note.’

For some reason she was surprised when he began to play beautifully. She had expected to feel a little embarrassed and to have to feign admiration. It wasn’t that she had doubted his
ability to play the guitar, but the way people laughed at him had given her the impression that he was rather useless. She hadn’t expected him to play
well
, even though Peg had told
her he had been quite successful in his day and had one or two hits in Ireland. He sang with confidence, as if he were used to an audience, and his voice was unexpectedly rich, with a sad,
plaintive tone that Ellen knew could break a heart.

He sang of his lost love and Ellen understood immediately that the poem was about her mother. The imagery was so beautiful as to have been inspired by only the very deepest sorrow. She listened,
without moving, to every word. Whatever anyone thought of Dylan, he was an extremely gifted and talented man.

As he sang, Ellen grew serious. She now looked with fresh eyes at the man everyone mocked as the local drunk, the local
joke
. He wasn’t mad at all; he was broken.

Dylan played the final chord and Ellen waited until the last sound had echoed off the walls and died before she picked up her hands and clapped. ‘That was beyond lovely, Dylan. It was
heavenly.’ And she smiled with pleasure because she really meant it.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly, then lowered his eyes as if he were suddenly ashamed to have exposed himself.

She gazed at him with a new fondness. ‘You wrote that for my mother, didn’t you?’

‘The greatest work is often born out of the greatest sadness.’

‘You still love her, don’t you?’

He was pensive a moment, staring at the flagstone at his feet. Then he trained his big eyes on hers and said, ‘I think when you love like that, you never stop.’

‘Even though she’s not the same woman now?’

‘She’ll always be the same Maddie, inside.’ He said this hopefully, Ellen thought, as if he couldn’t bear to imagine her being any different.

‘Life can be dreadfully disappointing, can’t it?’ she said, longing to show that she understood.

But his face brightened and he grinned. ‘And then something happens to restore your faith. Just when you think you have lost everything, an unexpected gift is placed on your doorstep to
show that all was not lost. Sometimes it takes a lifetime, but you have to be patient and know that even your cloud, however dark, will eventually be lined with silver.’

Ellen wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, whether he was referring to himself or to ‘one’ generally. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said impartially.
‘You know I taught myself the guitar when I was at school,’ she told him.

‘Do you want to have a go?’ He lifted the instrument off his knee.

‘I don’t think I’d remember much now.’

‘Try.’

‘Mum didn’t want me to learn guitar. She was terrified I’d play in a band and bring the family into disrepute.’

‘So you taught yourself?’

‘And formed a band.’ She grinned triumphantly. ‘Not that we were very good. But I loved it.’

‘Who wrote the songs?’

‘I tried.’ She laughed and crinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure I’d remember them now. It was so long ago.’

‘Have a strum. See if it still feels familiar.’

She took the guitar and put it on her knee. Then she placed her fingers over the strings and strummed a rather nervous G chord. Then she went from G to D to F, her confidence rising as it all
began to come back to her.

‘There, you see, your fingers remember.’

‘Let’s see if I can remember any of
my
old tunes.’

She couldn’t remember the words but she could hum the tune to one of the songs she had played in her band at school. Dylan was quick to catch on and hummed too, until they were both
jamming together. Dylan started to put words to the tune and to sing in harmony. It wasn’t long before they had composed a catchy chorus together. They sang it over and over, Dylan drumming
his hands on the pew in front and moving his body to the rhythm. They grinned at each other in mutual admiration as their music filled the chapel and bounced off the walls in a satisfying echo.

They were enjoying themselves so much that neither noticed the time pass. It was only when Dylan’s stomach began to contribute, too, that they decided it was time to go and eat. ‘Let
me treat you to dinner at the pub,’ Dylan suggested. ‘You’ve earned it by humouring an old man!’

‘You’re not old, Dylan!’ Ellen laughed, handing him back his guitar. ‘And you’re extremely good.’

‘So could you be, if you’d let me teach you.’

‘Do you think? I’m not sure I could compose like you do.’

‘Of course you could, and you have a beautiful voice.’

‘Maybe I have to wait until I’m sad. Maybe you can only create beautiful things when inspired by some deep sadness.’

‘There are many ways to compose and not all songs are sad. It just happens that most of mine were inspired by your mother. If
we
play together, I might be inspired by happiness
instead.’

They put on their coats and walked out into the drizzle. The clouds had moved inland off the sea and now hung low and heavy over the coast. ‘You’re going to get wet,’ said
Dylan. ‘Do you want to borrow my hat?’

‘No, you wear it. I don’t mind the rain. In fact, I like it when it’s in the countryside. I feel the water is clean and good for me.’

‘Oh, it’s clean all right and there’s plenty of it.’ They set off down the path at a brisk pace, past the jar of roses and Caitlin Macausland’s grave and on through
the little wooden gate. ‘How is your novel coming along?’ Dylan asked.

Ellen sighed. ‘I haven’t written a word.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I don’t know. I’m inspired by the countryside, but I haven’t figured out a plot yet.’

‘Why don’t you put on some music, light a candle, inject a bit of atmosphere into the room, then empty your mind and see what comes.’

‘Do people write like that, or just
you
? I thought it was preferable to work out a framework first.’

He grinned. ‘Everyone works differently, but I guess that you’d work well like that. To let inspiration come you have to empty your thoughts and wait for it to run
through
you.’

‘So, you’re saying not to intellectualize too much?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re thinking too hard.’ He chewed on a thought for a moment. ‘You have to let the music take you somewhere.’

‘OK, I’ll ask Peg for some inspiring music.’

‘Do you have an iPod?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give it to me and I’ll put together a playlist for you.’

‘You’d do that for me?’ she asked in surprise.

‘And why wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t know. It’s such a lot of work.’

‘Not for me. I love music, I’ve got it all downloaded onto my computer already. It’s nothing, really.’

‘Well, that would be fantastic, thank you.’

‘So, you let inspiration come from the deepest part of you, not the shallow machinations of your brain. If you feel your brain churning and groaning, you’re not letting the ideas
flow
through
you, do you see?’

‘I think so.’

‘Try it and see what happens.’

‘I shall. I’ll give you my iPod tonight in the pub.’

‘That’ll be grand.’

‘Thank you, Dylan. You’re very kind.’

He chuckled. ‘I don’t think that word has been used in the same sentence as my name for a very long time. But it feels good to be kind, Ellen Olenska.’

When they reached the Pot of Gold, Ellen’s hair was sodden and her coat as wet as Peg’s poor bedraggled donkey. It was only a matter of time before she’d have
to splash out on a new coat, but she couldn’t imagine where she’d find a nice one in Ballymaldoon.

Inside, it was warm. The fire crackled in the grate and a few locals sat having lunch and a pint at the tables and on stools around the bar. Craic looked surprised to see Ellen come in with
Dylan. He broke off his conversation a moment and watched them in astonishment. Ellen registered his reaction but pretended she hadn’t noticed. ‘Hi, Craic,’ she said breezily,
finding a space at the bar.

‘You look like a pair of drowned rats,’ he said.

‘We’ve been up on the hills,’ she replied, as if it was perfectly normal for her and Dylan to take off together.

‘What were you doing up there?’

She caught Dylan’s eye and smiled secretively. ‘Walking.’

‘All right then, what’ll you have?’

‘A Coke for Ellen and something non-alcoholic for me,’ interjected Dylan, leaning on the bar, hat in hand. ‘And we’ll have something to eat, too. What’ll you have,
Ellen Olenska?’

The way he said that name made her feel warm inside.

‘Something hot,’ she replied. ‘You choose.’ She grabbed her glass of Coke and made for a free table against the wall.

It wasn’t long before Dylan was telling Ellen about her mother. Whatever reservations Ellen had had about Dylan had evaporated in the beautiful music she had heard up in the chapel, and if
Dylan had been careful not to reveal too much about his past, he now felt sure enough of Ellen to take her into his confidence. Their music had bonded them; now their shared interest in Madeline
Byrne drew them even closer. ‘I always had a soft spot for your mother,’ he said, chewing on his sausage. ‘She was different from everyone else. She had the poise of a
duchess.’