The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I don’t suppose this is a social call?’ JP says, but he is feeling good about himself today because of his lunch with Margot. He is not going to allow Colm’s visit is deflate him.

  ‘I’ve come to apologize.’

  ‘Apologize?’ This is a surprise to JP.

  ‘I’ve thought about this book that that woman is researching and, well, perhaps I overreacted.’ Colm puts his hands in his pockets and lifts his shoulders. I feel that apologizing does not come easily for him.

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps you did.’ JP swigs his whiskey. ‘But we all make mistakes.’

  Colm’s jaw tenses. ‘I’d like to see some of the things in those boxes, if it’s all right with you. I thought perhaps I could get into the spirit of it, rather than condemning the project without knowing anything about it.’

  ‘I think that would be a capital idea.’

  Colm nods. ‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and meet Margot. She’s in the games room.’ He stubs out his cigarette.

  ‘I’ve already met her.’

  JP raises his eyebrows. ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes, and I wasn’t very polite. Perhaps I should apologize to her too.’

  ‘Yes, you should. She’s a guest in my house and I’d like her to be treated as such.’

  ‘Of course.’ Colm is being very agreeable today. I wonder what he’s up to.

  Whiskey in hand, JP leads the way down the corridor to the games room. He knocks. Margot calls for him to come in. He turns the brass knob and pushes open the door. Margot lifts her head out of the papers and smiles. When she sees Colm, her smile freezes.

  ‘I gather you two have already met,’ says JP.

  ‘I’m afraid Miss Hart saw me at my most hot-headed. I’m sorry for that,’ Colm says. His smile is as superficial as Margot’s.

  She gets up off the floor where she has been reading in front of the fire. She doesn’t know what Colm is doing here. She waits for one of them to speak.

  ‘I would like to show Colm some of the treasures in these boxes,’ JP says.

  Margot is visibly relieved. I imagine she thought he had come to berate her again. ‘If you like, I’ll leave you to it and come back tomorrow.’

  ‘No, please don’t go on my account.’ Colm is quick to detain her. ‘You probably know better than Dad what’s of interest and what’s not.’

  Margot has begun to make piles on the table. She walks round to show them. ‘This is all in date order. Starting here with the deeds to the land, dated 1662.’ She pats each pile, making her way up the table. ‘1700s, early 1800s, late 1800s, 1900–10, 1910–20 and so on.’

  Colm is surprised to see such a vast quantity of information on his family. He has been so consumed with the history of his own lifetime that he hasn’t considered the distant past. His interest is aroused. He goes to the first pile and opens an old, leather-bound ledger, embossed in gold with the Deverill family coat of arms. He gasps in wonder at the neat rows of handwritten accounts. The household expenses, from food to labour, and every item is written in black ink in the finest hand.

  Margot’s smile is warmer now. ‘Isn’t it fascinating?’ she says.

  Colm nods. He forgets his wariness of her as he is pulled into the past. ‘It’s amazing!’ he agrees, flicking through the pages. ‘Incredible to think that this was written over three hundred years ago.’ He runs his fingers over the ink. ‘It feels very real, doesn’t it. Very immediate.’ Then he reads out some of the entries he finds amusing. ‘Barton enjoyed entertaining lavishly,’ he says with a grin. ‘He spared no expense. Imagine spending fifty pounds, which must have been a fortune in those days, on candles!’

  ‘While those in Ballinakelly starved,’ Margot adds wryly.

  ‘I disagree. I suspect he kept the whole village going,’ Colm argues. ‘Who were the armies of footmen, servants, cooks, maids, gardeners and pageboys? Local people, of course. Before the castle they might have starved, certainly Cromwell’s armies would have decimated them, but when Barton Deverill built his castle they must have been thrown a lifeline. I bet they were grateful. There’s no evidence of conflict between the people of Ballinakelly and the castle, is there?’

  ‘Only Maggie O’Leary and her rabble army who tried and failed to burn it down.’

  ‘Maggie, my distant cousin, burned at the stake for witchcraft.’

  ‘Yes, you have the blood of both in your veins,’ says Margot thoughtfully. ‘Who’d have thought that some three centuries after Barton took the O’Learys’ land for his castle and sent them off to the swamps, his descendant would marry an O’Leary and unite the two families.’ She smiles, enjoying the romance of it. ‘It’s a beautiful story.’

  Colm glances at his father. It would be a beautiful story if JP and Alana had not ruined it. Still, Margot is right, Colm is the flower that grows out of the charred ground of Barton Deverill and Maggie O’Leary’s battlefield. He would most certainly be a symbol of redemption if he lived in the castle. But he does not, because his foolish father lost his birthright. How could he?

  I am gripped by a sudden burst of anger. I send a ripple through the air and pieces of paper flutter to the floor like leaves. Colm and Margot catch eyes. They are as startled as rabbits who have just heard the bang of the farmer’s gun. They drop to the floor together to gather up the paper. JP goes to the windows where he sees the night falling early through the glass. ‘It’s draughty in here,’ he says, but he knows there is no draught, certainly not one strong enough to disturb a pile of paper. I sense his suspicion as he draws the heavy velvet curtains. After all, he grew up with me and my sixth sense. He is familiar with earthbound spirits and ghosts and knows very well the difference. I wonder whether he suspects that I have not left. That I will not leave until the castle is returned to a Deverill – to Colm. I wonder if on some deep, perhaps unconscious, level he knows.

  None of them mentions the word ‘ghost’, although it is what they’re all thinking. Margot looks at her watch and declares that she must be going. JP reminds her that they will go riding tomorrow. Margot bids Colm farewell. Colm replies awkwardly. Now that he is not gazing at the ledger, he stiffens, as if he remembers himself suddenly and reminds himself not to let down his guard.

  Margot leaves. She is at home here now and lets herself out. JP and Colm are left alone together. JP has finished his whiskey and is already twitching with the craving for more. The two men say nothing. They stand uncomfortably together in front of the fire. Then Mrs B comes in.

  ‘Has Miss Hart gone?’ she asks.

  ‘She left a moment ago,’ JP replies.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. I know she likes my porter cake.’

  ‘She does indeed, Mrs B.’

  ‘I’d like some of your porter cake,’ Colm says suddenly.

  His father did not expect this. ‘You’ll stay for tea?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure,’ Colm replies. ‘Why not? I haven’t had Mrs B’s porter cake for years.’

  Mrs B smiles. Her face softens as she looks at Colm with tenderness. She knew him as a little boy. I suspect this family froideur has hurt her as much as it has hurt all of them. ‘I’ll bring it at once,’ she says and disappears.

  Colm turns to the billiard table. ‘So what else have you found here that’s interesting?’

  JP gives him Hermione Deverill’s diary. ‘Back in a tick,’ he says. Colm settles into the armchair and begins to read.

  A moment later JP is filling his glass with whiskey and knocking it back. I feel a wave of sadness as he stares into the glass, deliberating whether or not to refill it for the second time. I feel, also, a sense of helplessness. There is little I can do to help him from here. I can only watch as he attempts to drown whatever feelings he has of guilt or regret – for it must be those noxious bedfellows that plague him. A person only drinks like that if they find little in themselves to love.

  Chapter 7

  Margot had come prepared for riding. She knew enough
about Ireland, and the Deverills especially, to suppose that there was a good chance she would find herself on a horse. Her grandfather had been an adept huntsman in his day and, as a child, Margot had taken riding lessons. Her mother didn’t care for the countryside but tried hard to fit in with her husband’s lifestyle, at least at the beginning, which made her agreeable to Margot signing up for Pony Club Camp and the odd point-to-point. For her eighth birthday, her father bought her a pony called Sergeant Percy, which arrived with his best friend, a donkey called Charlie, and for a few years Margot spent happy hours plaiting her pony’s mane, brushing him down, polishing the tack and mucking out the stable. Charlie watched the goings-on with mild interest, enlivening only when Margot took Percy out of the field. Then the donkey would bray frantically until his friend was returned to him. Margot was passionate about her pony, until she discovered boys. Then Sergeant Percy grew fat and idle in the field, and Charlie was blissfully happy.

  Now she set off in her blue Beetle for the Hunting Lodge, dressed in a pair of navy jodhpurs and jacket, black riding boots and hat. When Mr Flannigan had lugged her suitcase up the stairs to her room, those boots and hat were what had made it so heavy. The last time she had ridden was across the Andes from Argentina to Chile, sleeping under the stars. Now she anticipated a glorious day on the hills around Ballinakelly. The weather promised to be kind, but it could change quickly on the coast, the sea winds picking up unexpectedly and blowing clouds inland to unleash their showers on the unsuspecting tourist. Right now the sky was the colour of washed denim. The sun was shining in all its glory, bathing the fields in a bright golden light, turning the grass an almost phosphorescent green.

  JP was waiting for Margot in the hall, looking a lot less glamorous in a long, olive-green wax raincoat and tweed cap. He did not wear jodhpurs, but a pair of moleskin trousers, and on his feet were an old pair of lace-up walking boots. Mrs B had prepared a Thermos flask of tea and JP had filled a hip flask with whiskey, the prospect of which warmed him as if it were a hot potato in his pocket.

  ‘You look quite the part, Margot,’ he said when he saw her. Her face was pretty, heart-shaped, naked without her hair which was now pulled back and tied into a plait. She looked younger, too, without make-up.

  ‘I didn’t want to get it wrong,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘You can’t get it wrong in Ireland. Isn’t that right, Mrs B?’

  ‘Oh, yes, m’lord. We Irish don’t always do the done thing.’

  ‘I hope you’ve had a hearty breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘As hearty as I can tolerate at this time of the morning.’

  ‘I’ll make a good lunch for when you come back,’ said Mrs B. ‘I’ll do a pot roast pheasant.’

  Mrs B was heartened to see JP so full of enthusiasm. His tone of voice was chirpy, his humour restored. This was the man she knew, not the gloomy, desolate stranger who had gradually taken him over this last decade. She watched them leave and then closed the door behind them and headed off to the kitchen to prepare the pheasant. It had been a very long time since she had felt so positive, there was even a small bounce in her step. As she put on her apron and took the pots and pans down from the shelf it dawned on her that she was actually looking forward to cooking this meal and thinking of ways to make it more interesting. Margot’s presence was lifting the house out of the shadows and filling it with light.

  Then Mrs B did something radical. Injected with optimism she went into the storeroom and took down the old wireless from the shelf. She blew off the dust, for it hadn’t been used in years, and plugged it into the wall. She turned it on. At once the sound of classical music floated out and Mrs B stared at it in wonder. There was magic in the way it rid the place of silence, the dreaded silence to which Mrs B had grown so accustomed that she had ceased to notice it. It had become a part of her, this silence, like a sad, stagnant pool of solitude in the centre of her being where all her hurts lay buried. Now the music stirred it, sending ripples across it, inspiring her to wonder how she had endured it for so long. She turned up the volume and sighed with pleasure. Things were going to change; she could feel it in the internal shifts taking place within her. And she could feel it in the music. She wasn’t going to allow that silence to invade her kitchen again.

  * * *

  JP led Margot to the stables, which were at the back of the house, beyond the kitchen garden. Nothing grew at this time of year, and the gardens had an air of wistfulness, as if they had once been lavishly cultivated and were now cut back, minimized and simply maintained. The vegetable plots lay bare, the chocolate-brown soil neatly raked. The greenhouse was empty, its glass cloudy with mildew, haunted by the same desolation that haunted the house. She didn’t imagine JP went out much. She didn’t imagine he took any interest in the gardens. Margot wondered what the place had been like when it had been filled with love.

  They reached the stables and JP introduced her to Tomas and Aidan O’Rourke, who had saddled up the horses. Margot thought she recognized them from the pub. Brothers, dark and handsome, with clear blue eyes, thin, stubbly faces and canine teeth that were longer than the others, giving them a foxy look. Margot needed no help in getting into the saddle. She slipped her left foot into the stirrup and swung up with ease. JP, on the other hand, was less agile. Tomas positioned the horse beside a stone mounting block specifically built for this purpose and JP climbed on with a groan.

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve ridden,’ he said, taking hold of the reins.

  ‘When you say a while, how long do you mean?’ Margot asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Years.’

  She was surprised. ‘You have two beautiful horses and you never go out?’

  ‘I have six beautiful horses,’ he corrected. Then he slumped, defeated. ‘I haven’t had the will, Margot.’

  ‘Who exercises them when you don’t?’

  ‘These lads,’ he replied, nodding at Tomas and Aidan. ‘They keep the place ticking over.’

  ‘If I wasn’t a writer, I’d like their job,’ she said, watching them smile with pride. She imagined it to be a lonely one, however.

  ‘We could always do with another pair of hands,’ said Aidan with a grin, those fox teeth giving his smile a raffish charm.

  ‘Aye, and one with a seat as good as yours, Miss Hart,’ Tomas added. He patted her horse’s flank. ‘You’ll have a fine morning up there. The weather’s good. You’ll not get wet.’

  ‘If you’re wrong and I get wet, you’ll have to buy me a drink tonight in O’Donovan’s,’ she told him as she squeezed her ankles and the horse walked on.

  ‘So, that’s where you go in the evenings, is it?’ said JP.

  ‘I’ve been a few times. It’s a good place to observe people.’

  He chuckled. ‘It’s the heart of the town. Always has been. You know, when I was growing up women weren’t allowed in there.’

  ‘Well, they looked pretty surprised to see me walk in on my own.’

  ‘I bet they did. Old habits die hard in places like this.’

  They left the estate and set off up a path that meandered gently around the contours of the land, taking them into the open countryside. Soon, they were ascending into the hills – velvet green strewn with rocks, grazing sheep, drystone walls, long grasses and heather. From there they could see the sea. Sheer cliffs with horizontal layers like slices of cake rose sharply out of the water, waves breaking against them, bleeding clouds of foam. Gulls cried into the wind that carried on its frosty breath the scents of ozone and brine. Margot was suddenly injected with excitement. It felt exhilarating to be up there in the elements, in this wild, unbridled land. It released something inside her that caused her eyes to fill with tears. She thought of her father then. Instead of pushing him out she let him stay for a moment. She pictured his face, heart-shaped like hers, and his jaunty smile, and was surprised that the image her mind conjured up was a positive one. She took a breath, inhaling the rich smells of wet soil and heather, ingesting the taste of Ir
eland, allowing the ancient enchantment that is sown deep into the earth to rise up and find its way into her heart.

  JP must have felt it too, for he turned to her and smiled, a smile so full of gratitude that Margot felt a sense of gratitude of her own, surging inside her like the upward swell of an ocean. ‘Let’s gallop,’ she suggested.

  JP turned his face into the wind. ‘Follow me!’ he shouted and set off, the thunder of his horse’s hooves dying away as he left her behind. Margot clenched her jaw and kicked her horse’s ribs. In a moment she was flying over the grass in his wake, the air cold against her face, the adrenalin coursing through her veins like fire. She laughed out loud, the mad, abandoned laugh of someone who has just discovered something inside herself that she hadn’t known was there. In that moment of total freedom from restraint, she felt more alive than she’d ever felt before. Even riding across the Andes hadn’t given her this thrill, for the delight was in the land, in the wind and in the rumbling of the waves. The wildness of it unleashed the wildness in her and she did not try to contain it but let it express itself freely. When she joined JP, who had drawn his horse to a halt and was waiting for her on the crest of a knoll, she was out of breath and smiling so hard her face ached.

  He held out his hip flask. ‘This will fortify you,’ he said.

  Margot took a swig. The whiskey burned all the way down her gullet to her stomach. ‘That was incredible,’ she gasped. ‘I don’t think I’ve laughed like that, ever.’

  JP’s eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed pink. He looked a decade younger. No longer the shadow of the insouciant young man he had once been, but an older version of him, as was right. He lit a cigarette, shielding it from the wind with his hands as he flicked the lighter and sucked until the little end glowed crimson. Then he sat back in his saddle and gazed about him, taking in the beauty of the vast horizon, feeling small beneath the heavens yet not insignificant. He shook his head. ‘I should have come up here sooner,’ he said. ‘If I had known it would make me feel like this, I would have.’