Secrets of the Lighthouse (7 page)

‘Ah, there you are, pet. Come and meet your family.’ Peg beamed at her happily. There, sitting around the table, hugging mugs of tea, were four men as old as Peg and one younger man,
closer to her own age. Ellen stared at them in astonishment. ‘These are your uncles: Johnny, Desmond, Ryan and Craic, and that’s Joe, Johnny’s boy.’ None of them stood up to
greet her, but they all took off their caps. The curiosity in their eyes was as ill-disguised as hunger in the eyes of wolves. ‘I’m afraid when they heard you were coming they all
wanted to be the first to get a good look at you,’ Peg added.

This is my family,
Ellen thought incredulously as she stood gazing at the gruff, hairy men as if they were another species. At first glance, they didn’t look anything like her
mother. Could they really share the same blood? She made a conscious effort to collect herself and extended her hand politely. Boarding school had trained her to hide her feelings. She could always
find refuge in good manners when an unfamiliar situation threatened to unbalance her. ‘So you’re Mum’s brothers?’ she said. One by one they shook her hand, repeating their
names, gazing up at her as if they, too, were struggling to find their own features reflected in hers.

‘I’m Desmond and I’m the oldest Byrne,’ the first said with an air of importance. ‘My wife, Alanna, wanted to come too but she had to get to work, so you’ll
meet her later.’

‘I look forward to meeting her,’ Ellen replied, finding Desmond’s dark looks intimidating. He was the biggest of them all, with a large barrel chest, solid, muscular shoulders
and a short, thick neck. His hair was black and wiry, speckled with grey, and a woolly black beard covered a wide and serious face. He looked like the sort of man capable of knocking a person down
with a mere flick of his fingers.

‘And I’m Johnny, and this is my boy, Joe,’ interjected the smaller man beside him. Like Desmond, Johnny had deep-set blue eyes, but the expression in them was kinder and more
sensitive than his brother’s. He also wore a beard but the hair looked soft and covered less of his face, and unlike Desmond, who was blessed with a thatch of hair, Johnny was balding.

‘Hi,’ said Johnny’s son, Joe. His hand was warm, his grip strong, and Ellen almost gasped when her bones crunched beneath his fingers. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt
you,’ he said and grinned crookedly. He was very handsome when he smiled, she thought, and she imagined his father must have been handsome like him when he was young, for they were very
similar, except for Joe’s eyes, which were a rich moss green.

‘Doesn’t know his own strength, that boy,’ said Ryan, shaking his auburn hair in mock disdain. ‘I apologize for my nephew; he’s all brawn and no brains!’ He
laughed and his teeth were yellowed and crooked. ‘This is how it’s done, boy,’ he said to Joe, and he shook her hand gently. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ellen. I’m
Ryan.’

‘Hello, Ryan.’ She laughed, finding his hand warm and soft, like dough.

‘And I’m Craic,’ said the last, and there was a diffidence in his pale-grey eyes and a fairness in his colouring that he did not share with his brothers. Of all her uncles, he
was the one who looked most like her mother, and Ellen smiled at him genially, reassured to discover something familiar in the unfamiliar faces staring back at her. But in spite of that similarity,
they were worlds apart. The men’s Irish accents were strong, their hands big and rough. Ellen thought of her father’s soft skin and clean nails. His were the hands of a man who worked
in a plush office in Mayfair and enjoyed long lunches with his friends at White’s. Her uncles’ hands reminded her of the builders who were constantly working on the house in Eaton
Court, satisfying her mother’s insatiable demands – or her need to avoid boredom at any cost.

‘Come and take a seat, pet. I’ve got porridge for you, and tea.’ Jack perched on the back of Ryan’s chair at the head of the table. Her uncle didn’t seem to notice
him there, or he was so used to his sister’s irregular residents that he ignored him as one would a chair or a teapot. Ellen took the empty seat at the foot of the table. Peg placed a bowl of
porridge in front of her. She’d added a golden trail of honey in a spiral. It steamed seductively.

‘So what are you all having?’ Ellen asked, breaking the awkward silence. They were all staring at her as if she were an exotic animal Peg had rescued from a foreign country.
‘Aunt Peg has cooked you up a feast!’

‘Eggs and bacon for the boys,’ said Peg, pouring tea into her mug. ‘Tuck in, pet. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

‘Do you get breakfast here every morning?’ She directed her question at Joe because he was her age and the least scary.

He grinned and his dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Not likely. A cup of tea is usually all that’s on the menu. Isn’t that right, Peggine?’

She smacked him playfully on the head. He had thick, glossy black hair and a long, cheeky face. Ellen noticed the affection in his eyes when he looked at his aunt.

‘Peg won’t come to the boozer so we have to come here,’ Johnny added with a grin.

‘Why won’t you go to the pub, Aunt Peg?’ Ellen asked.

‘Too many people,’ she replied with a shrug.

‘Peg’s kitchen is a fine place to chinwag after a long day’s work,’ Johnny interjected kindly. ‘She makes a strong cup of tea!’

‘I’m the landlord of the pub,’ interjected Craic. ‘But I don’t take it personally,’ he added, winking at his sister.

‘You own the Pot of Gold?’ Ellen repeated, impressed. She had never met a publican before.

‘I do, for my sins.’

Desmond raised his mug of tea and grinned lopsidedly. ‘Practice makes perfect, there’s many do think, but a man’s not too perfect when he’s practised at drink.’

‘Who wrote that?’ Ellen asked.

‘I don’t know, but he was Irish for sure!’ They all laughed heartily. The awkwardness lifted and they all began to speak at once, their voices low and growly like bears. Peg
fussed over them, making more toast and pouring more tea, and Ellen remembered the solitary figure she had been in the field, so far removed from the jovial hostess she was now, buzzing about her
kitchen busily, her face aglow with pleasure.

Ellen had never known a big family. Her father, Anthony, came from an aristocratic Norfolk family who had owned the large and beautiful estate of Hardingham Hall for over four
hundred years. When Anthony’s father died, his elder brother, Robert, inherited the family seat and the title of Marquis of Zelden. Robert’s son George duly took up the earldom and
Anthony, Ellen’s father, was left as simply Lord Anthony Trawton. His sister, Anne, had married a Scotsman and had gone to live in Edinburgh, and Anthony, of course, had settled in London.
Being a rather chilly family, they spent little time together beyond the traditional Christmas gathering up at Hardingham Hall, where they’d all put on a great show of family unity, parade at
the local church and promise to make more effort to see each other the following year. They never did. Ellen sat in the midst of her newfound relations, trying to understand their cheerful banter,
marvelling at the world her mother had chosen to hide away, and wishing she had always been part of it.

‘I’d like to have a drink with you tonight in the Pot of Gold,’ Ellen suggested, finishing the last spoonful of porridge with regret. ‘I’ve never been in a proper
Irish pub.’

‘Well, you’ve missed out then, haven’t you?’ said Johnny.

‘I’ll come and get you,’ Joe offered.

‘You’ll meet the lot of us, then,’ Johnny added.

‘But are you ready for the lot of us?’ interjected Ryan, shaking his curly red head.

‘I’m ready now, aren’t I? And there are a lot of you here.’ She laughed.

‘You’ll be just grand, pet,’ Peg reassured her, patting her shoulder as she leaned down to take her empty porridge bowl away. ‘You see, porridge was all you needed to put
the colour back in your cheeks.’

‘So how is Maddie?’ Desmond asked, leaning back in his chair. The room fell silent and the awkwardness descended over them again like a heavy cloud. His brothers looked at one
another uneasily but Desmond didn’t flinch. He didn’t look like the sort of man who cared too much about being tactful.

‘She’s very well,’ Ellen replied casually.

‘What does she make of you being here in the motherland with us?’ Johnny asked, rubbing his beard nervously.

‘She doesn’t know she’s here,’ Peg answered for her. The men stared harder.

‘She doesn’t know you’re here?’ Ryan repeated. ‘Where the hell does she think you are, then?’

‘In the English countryside, somewhere, trying to write a novel.’

‘You’re a writer, are you?’ said Joe. ‘That’s grand.’

‘
Trying
to be a writer, would be more accurate,’ Ellen said with a sniff, as if it really wasn’t very important whether she became one or not.

‘What do you write about?’ Joe asked.

‘Novels, you know, mystery, relationships, life,’ she replied importantly. ‘Oswald told me about the castle. That sounds like a good place to base a book.’

‘You can come with me and Joe today, if you like. We work up there. I’m estate manager and Joe just smokes and watches,’ said Johnny with a chuckle. ‘The idle
gobshite!’

‘Yes, let’s humour the old man,’ Joe retorted, rolling his eyes. ‘Let him think he’s doing it all on his own.’ He turned back to Ellen. ‘There are
plenty of ghosts up there for you to write about.’

‘Don’t listen to him, pet. The only ghosts are those two fooling about after a heavy night in the Pot of Gold,’ Peg interjected.

‘There’s not a lot for them to do up there, I don’t imagine,’ Ryan added. ‘The castle is locked up and Mr Macausland’s in Dublin most of the time. If they sat
having a picnic all day no one would know or care.’

‘So, if your mam doesn’t know you’re here, how did you find us?’ Desmond brought the subject back to Ellen, his gaze steady and penetrating.

‘From Aunt Peg’s letters and Christmas cards that Mother keeps in a drawer. I thought Aunt Peg was her only sibling. I didn’t know she had four brothers.’

‘That’ll be for sure,’ Desmond muttered. ‘And what’ll you tell her?’

Ellen shrugged noncommittally. ‘I’m not going to tell her anything. What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve for. She doesn’t need to know I’ve found
you.’ She lowered her eyes because she sensed Aunt Peg saw through her facade. The older woman was watching her pensively from the Stanley. Her story was gaping with missing information that
Ellen didn’t feel ready to share, but a guilty blush warmed her cheeks because she knew Aunt Peg must suspect now that she had run away.

‘I’d love to see the castle,’ she said, longing to extricate herself. She didn’t want to talk about her mother any more. She didn’t like the feeling of being
interrogated, especially when she was hiding so much.

‘Well, there’s no time like the present,’ said Johnny, pushing out his chair. ‘Thanks for breakfast, Peg.’

‘Don’t you all come to my door tomorrow expecting another fry-up, now will you?’

‘Too late, Peggine.’ Joe laughed. ‘It’s a grand way to start the day.’

‘You’re like a pack of dogs,’ Peg retorted. ‘Off with you all now. I’ve work to do.’

‘How’s that squirrel?’ Craic asked.

‘Hibernating. And he’s called Reilly, by the way.’

‘You’re just grand, Peg,’ said Desmond, patting her shoulder.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Desmond Byrne. Now, out of my house, the lot of you.’ She herded them out like a pack of sheep.

‘You sure you won’t come to the boozer?’ Desmond asked, his gruff voice suddenly surprisingly soft and full of compassion.

‘No,’ she replied in the same tone, as if there was something unspeakable in the air between them of which they were both acutely aware but unwilling to articulate.

‘OK, then we’ll share a pint with our niece,’ he conceded.

‘Bring her back in one piece, won’t you?’

‘I’ll keep an eye.’

Peg noticed Ellen shrugging on her fur jacket. It was the most inappropriate coat for the countryside. ‘Take a pair of my boots, pet. You’ll get very muddy up at the castle with the
boys, and it might rain, so borrow an overcoat, too. Your furry thing looks very dear altogether, so you don’t want to ruin it.’

Ellen decided to wear her own jacket but gave in to the boots. They weren’t fashionable, but they were comfortable and fitted her perfectly. ‘You and I have the same size
feet,’ she called to Peg.

‘We must be related,’ her aunt replied with a chuckle. ‘I’ll see you later. Don’t be believing all Joe’s stories, now, will you? He’s full of
rubbish.’

‘I love ghost stories,’ Ellen answered, following the men outside.

‘So did I once,’ Peg added, almost to herself. And when Ellen turned back, her aunt’s face looked desperately sad, as if a fire had once burned through her heart, like the
lighthouse.

I am in a limbo, bound to the earth but not of it. The fact that I can be anywhere I want at will is little consolation. I have no body. I’m like a wisp of smoke that
never dies, drifting from one place to another by the sheer force of my will. One minute I am in Dublin, the next in Connemara. How easy it would have been to have travelled like this in body! And
yet the years have made me lonely. I have denied myself heaven but play no earthly part. I can only observe the lives of those I love as if in a dream. I have no need for sleep and I am never
hungry. I don’t feel the cold or the rain upon my skin, and yet I experience a deep and lasting pleasure in the beautiful Irish countryside, just as I always did; perhaps even more so now,
because it is all I have.

The frustration I felt in the beginning has mellowed and I am resigned to this nonexistence. I am lonely, but not alone. Spirits pass through the corridors of the castle but take no notice of
me. I could drive myself mad trying to chase them, searching the rooms for their company. They are like mist that disappears into the air like breath on a cold winter’s morning. I imagine
they were there when I was living, existing in this parallel dimension, as disinterested in me as they are now. I don’t know where they go and why they won’t communicate with me. It
would be nice to have a friend.