Secrets of the Lighthouse (46 page)

Ellen stopped typing. She stared at the screen in astonishment. The flow of inspiration had ceased to run through her. It had simply switched itself off like a light. She had
nothing more to add. Not a word. The room felt strangely cold even though the fire crackled heartily in the grate. She rubbed her hands together. Her fingers were icy. She scrolled back to the
beginning of the story and read it again, her heart pounding with excitement. These were definitely not her words. She simply couldn’t have written this even if she had wanted to. They
weren’t her thoughts, either. When the names Ronan, Caitlin and Conor had dropped into the narration, she had been so stunned that she had almost ceased typing, but the story was being
dictated with such force, she had had no choice but to keep going. Was it possible that Caitlin had somehow channelled her story through her? If so, why?

Without wasting another minute ruminating on things of which she knew nothing, she printed out the story and left the room. Peg was in the garden with Reilly, who had just come out of
hibernation, trying to train him to use the new house Ronan had fashioned for him out of pine. Ellen hurried across the gravel to Oswald’s house. He was in his sitting room, busily putting
the finishing touches to his portrait of Peg.

‘Oswald,’ she hissed, falling into the room and closing the door behind her. ‘I need you to read something for me urgently.’

Oswald looked at her over his spectacles. ‘Ah, you’ve started, have you?’

‘Not really. Just read this and tell me what you think.’

‘But you wrote it?’

She handed it to him. ‘Technically, yes. But otherwise, no.’

He frowned at her. ‘Leprechauns,’ he said with a knowing shake of his head. ‘Typical.’ He pushed his spectacles up his nose and sat down. It took him a short while to
read it, but Ellen knew he understood when his hands began to tremble. When he had finished, he dropped the pages onto his lap. ‘You do realize you have just been inspired?’ He said the
word ‘inspired’ with emphasis. ‘And I’m not talking leprechauns.’

‘If you mean that Caitlin has spoken through me, yes,’ she replied excitedly. ‘Is it possible that she’s still here?’

‘There’s only one person who will know whether this account of her death is true,’ said Oswald.

Ellen blanched. ‘Conor and I don’t speak any more, so how can I ask him?’

Oswald took off his glasses and crossed his legs. ‘My dear girl, this is a clear message from the other side. Caitlin
wants
you to contact him.’

Ellen’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

‘But of course. Spirits don’t go to all this trouble for nothing.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because she wants to make it up to Conor, perhaps.’ He waved the sheets of paper in the air. ‘This is quite possibly the truth of what happened the night she died. I must say
it makes sense. Dylan wasn’t wrong when he said he saw someone rowing to shore in the middle of the night. Poor Ronan, he got a very rum deal. I think that’s something we keep between
ourselves, Ellen. Peg has had enough surprises recently.’

‘Conor obviously never told anyone that Ronan had been there, not even the police.’

‘If people knew that they’d agree that he’s a better man than they think he is.’

Ellen flopped into the armchair, feeling suddenly drained. ‘No wonder Ronan doesn’t like speaking about her. He loved her.’

‘And she used him most cruelly.’

‘You know, Conor said she was unbalanced. I now know what he meant.’

‘I imagine she’s gained a bit of perspective where she is now.’

‘I’m not psychic, so how did she know to use
me
as a channel?’

‘Of course you’re psychic. We all are,’ Oswald said firmly. ‘Most people dismiss it as coincidence or luck when strange things happen, and the more they deny a finer
sense the less able they are to perceive with it.’

‘If Caitlin can write through me, why doesn’t Ciara write something for Peg?’

‘That’s a very good question. I’m afraid I don’t know the answer. She’s blown out candles, moved things, rattled things, goodness knows what else she’s done
which none of us have noticed. You have to remember that spirits are made of lighter vibrations so it’s not easy to affect material things on our dense level of vibration. It must be
frightfully frustrating if one’s trying to let someone know one’s still around.’ He thought a moment, then added, ‘I imagine the person down here has to be open and able to
receive. Perhaps Peg, for whatever reason, has closed down that fine sense of hers. After the row with Father Michael, maybe she mistrusted what she had seen after Ciara died, and shut down. You
must be very receptive to have received this information from Caitlin.’

‘Unhappiness,’ said Ellen with a bitter chuckle.

‘And longing,’ Oswald added kindly. ‘You and Caitlin have that in common; a desperate longing for Conor.’

So, with Oswald’s gentle persuasion, Ellen decided to pass Caitlin’s message on to Conor. She missed him so much it was as if her heart wasn’t an organ at all, but an open
wound that failed to heal. She thought of him constantly, and in a strange way she derived comfort from all the things in Connemara that reminded her of him: the sea, the beach, the hills. They
made her feel better, even though the memories they contained prodded and scratched the wound and occasionally caused it to bleed. Sending him Caitlin’s message with a short message of her
own would lose her nothing, because she had already lost everything.

She penned a simple note, deliberately keeping it brief:
Dear Conor, I sat down to write a song and this is what happened. I can’t explain it, but I didn’t write it. I simply
took dictation. It’s obviously for you. I’m here in Connemara, living with Aunt Peg. I hope you’re happy. Ellen.

She wanted to add how much she missed him and that she could barely live without him, but she restrained herself. There was nothing worse than a needy woman, begging to be taken back. She still
had her dignity, if nothing else. She considered dropping the note through his letter box, but there was always a chance he might be at home and the thought of bumping into him filled her with
mortification. So she gave it to Oswald, who was only too happy to act as postman. He disappeared in Peg’s car, returning a little later to report that Conor was in Dublin but the housekeeper
had assured him she’d make sure he got it. Ellen resolved to think no more about it. He hadn’t contacted her in weeks; there was little chance he would contact her now.

Life went back to normal. During the day she worked in the shop; lunches were either sandwiches, or eaten at the Pot of Gold with Dylan and her family. In the evenings, when
Peg and Oswald played cards or chess, Ellen returned to the sitting room and wrote sad songs, which she would later sing with Dylan. Their voices blended beautifully, like sunshine and rain,
creating a magnificent spectrum of colour.

Then one balmy summer’s evening, after they had enjoyed a rare dinner in the garden, Oswald disappeared into his house and returned with the canvas, covered in a dust sheet. ‘What
have you got there, Oswald?’ Peg asked, getting up to clear the plates.

‘A present,’ he said, smiling proudly.

‘You’ve paid your rent,’ she replied, confused.

‘This isn’t rent, Peg. This is different.’ He leant it against the wall of the house. Ellen felt the air still around them as the expression on Oswald’s face told Peg
that this was no ordinary present. ‘This is for
you
,’ he said.

Peg’s hand shot to her mouth and her eyes glistened. ‘Oh,’ she replied.

Slowly, he lifted the dust sheet to reveal the portrait. Peg’s mouth fell open and she gasped. She gazed at her likeness and her blush deepened. ‘But I’m not beautiful,’
she said, blinking back tears.

‘You are to me,’ he replied softly.

‘Oh, Oswald . . . I never . . .’

‘Of course you never knew,’ he said, smiling at her fondly. ‘But you’re the most beautiful woman in the world to me.’ He walked over and took her hands. Ellen was
rooted to the grass like a weed, wishing she was anywhere but here, intruding on their private moment. But they seemed not to notice in the sudden flowering of their affection for one another.
‘I love you, Peg.’

‘Do you really?’ she asked, looking up at him beneath her frown.

‘Really and truly, old girl. I have for a very long time.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then just say yes and make me the happiest man alive.’

Peg blinked but the tears broke through; she tried to speak but the words got stuck in her throat. So she simply nodded, smiled, then laughed with embarrassment. Oswald pulled her into his arms
and squeezed her tightly. Ellen uprooted herself and tiptoed into the house. She went upstairs to her bedroom and retrieved from her bedside table the mobile telephone Conor had given her. A few
minutes later she was heading down the path to the sea.

She stood on the sand, gazing across at the lighthouse, benign now in the soft evening light. She thought of Caitlin and her final moments and she thought of Conor, so deceived and unhappy. She
watched the light fade and the first star twinkle above the lighthouse like a distant angel guiding the way home. She wondered about death and the purpose of life and knew that Caitlin was right.
Love was all that matters. Without it our lives are pointless.

She held the telephone in her hand and remembered the time she had thrown her iPhone into the sea. That moment had changed her life so dramatically that it had now become a symbol of
metamorphosis. Well, she needed to move on again, emotionally at least. Conor wasn’t coming back. There was no use keeping a telephone that never rang and a hope that was never ignited. She
didn’t want to waste her life pining as Dylan had. She had to open her heart to the future: after all, her mother had moved on and found happiness with her father. So could she.

Ellen lifted her hand and pulled it back behind her ear. Just as she was about to throw the phone as far out to sea as she possibly could, it rang. She stumbled forward, grabbing it tightly as
it was on the point of leaving her fingers. Stunned, she stared at it. The little window was lit up with his name.

‘Hello,’ she answered. There was a long pause. Even then she felt him down the line, his vibration breaking through the silence, ripping back the months.

‘Ellen,’ he said finally.

‘Yes.’ She barely dared breathe.

‘I got your letter.’

‘Oh, good.’ She tried to sound casual. She told herself that this call meant nothing. He was simply calling about Caitlin’s story.

‘I’m not happy,’ he said flatly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Guilt tugged at her heart like a leaden weight on the string of a helium balloon.

‘Are
you
happy?’

She didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t want her; what did it matter to him if she was happy or not? ‘I’m OK,’ she replied. ‘You know, life goes on.’
Her voice trailed off. There was nothing else to add. She could feel her heart thumping against her ribcage, like the words that pounded against her restraint, desperate to break free and reach out
to him with love and supplication. She bit her lip, determined not to cry.

‘Where are you? It sounds windy.’

‘On the beach.’

‘What are you doing down there?’

‘I like it here. It’s a beautiful evening.’

‘I read the story, Ellen.’ He sounded very serious.

She suddenly wished she hadn’t sent it. ‘I’m sorry; perhaps I shouldn’t have given it to you. It was intrusive and tactless.’

‘Can you come to the castle?’

‘Sure, when?’

‘Now.’

‘Now?’

‘Unless you want to spend all night on the beach.’

She laughed in spite of herself. ‘Well, I was going to go in at some point.’

‘I want to show you something. It’s important.’

‘All right.’

His voice brightened. ‘Great, I’ll see you in a minute. I’ll wait for you at the front.’

Ellen ran up the beach as fast as her trembling legs could carry her, desperately trying not to read too much into his desire to see her. She told herself that he was simply concerned about
Caitlin’s story. If he wanted her back he would have said so. He would have told her he missed her. He might have even apologized. But he hadn’t. He’d simply said that he
wasn’t happy, but he could easily have been referring to the fact that she’d lied to him.

When she reached Peg’s house, her aunt and Oswald were nowhere to be seen, so she wrote a short note telling them that she was going up to the castle to meet Conor, and left it on the
kitchen table. The car was on the gravel. It was unlikely that Peg needed it but she didn’t think they’d appreciate her shouting about the property to find out. She climbed in and
turned the key with a shaking hand. A moment later she was driving up the lane towards Ballymaldoon Castle, her head engaged in a losing battle to control the optimistic swelling of her heart.

She drove beneath the trees whose sturdy branches were now adorned with waxy green leaves and roosting birds. The fields were wild with overgrown grasses, and beyond, the magnificent hills were
silhouetted in the twilight. Ellen tried to convince herself that it didn’t matter whether Conor loved her or not, because she was happy enough to live in this beautiful, untamed land. She
needed nothing more than her family and Connemara, really, nothing at all.

As the castle came into view her pulse began to quicken. She noticed Conor’s car and then she noticed him, standing with his hands in his pockets, wearing a blue shirt, jacket and jeans.
His hair was longer now and his face darkened with an inch of stubble. He was thinner, too, and slightly hunched. Her nervousness vanished as she was blindsided by a wave of compassion.

She drew up beside his car and climbed out. He wandered over, his lips curling into a hesitant smile. He appraised her, but without his usual arrogance. ‘You look great, Ellen,’ he
said.

‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘So do you.’ Which wasn’t entirely true. He’d lost his sheen, but his deep-blue eyes were still as startling as ever.