The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  She was falling in love. She had never allowed that to happen before.

  * * *

  The following day Colm went off to work and Margot went to the Hunting Lodge to see JP. She found him at the round table in the corner of the sitting room, mending what looked like an old model ship. Music resonated from the cupboard and, for the first time since winter, the fire was not lit. Sunshine, warm and bright, tumbled through the glass windowpanes with the enthusiasm of early summer, warming the room and filling it with an uplifting sense of optimism.

  JP raised his eyes from his work when he saw her. ‘Good morning, Margot,’ he said with a smile. ‘I made this when I was a boy. With the help of my father, of course. I thought I’d resurrect it.’

  ‘You made that?’ she asked, taking a closer look. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far. It’s pretty amateur, really. But I had fun making it. I had a thing about boats when I was a child. I used to sail out with my father in his little sailing boat, and fish. We’d also sail around the coast, looking for caves. I used to love hearing stories about smugglers.’

  ‘I didn’t know you sailed.’

  ‘I don’t. I did, but I don’t now. Haven’t for years. Since Colm and the girls were children, I suppose.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s something else you should resurrect.’

  JP unscrewed the lid on the bottle of glue and dabbed it onto the model. ‘I don’t know. I found my riding legs, but I’m not sure I’ll find my sea legs again.’

  Mrs B wandered in, duster in hand. ‘Good morning, Miss Hart.’

  ‘Have you seen this, Mrs B?’ Margot asked, pointing to the model ship.

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s a wonder, isn’t it? Lord Deverill has always been very talented.’

  JP chuckled. ‘What would I do without you, Mrs B, blowing my trumpet for me?’

  Mrs B laughed and put her hands on her hips. ‘Get away with yourself and your codding, m’lord,’ she said.

  Margot sat on the sofa as JP stuck pieces onto the ship with steady hands. It wasn’t so long ago that those hands had trembled, she thought, as she observed him concentrating on his work. ‘My friend Dorothy Walbridge has returned to the hotel,’ she told him.

  ‘Mrs Walbridge? She’s a friend of Emer O’Leary’s,’ said JP.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Not very well. Nice lady, if I recall. English. Wears brown lace-up shoes like Miss Marple.’

  Margot laughed. ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘Her husband died in a car crash.’

  Margot was astonished. ‘That’s terrible! Did they have children?’

  ‘They had a daughter who died. Leukaemia, I think it was. When she was young. You know she lived in Buenos Aires?’

  ‘Yes, she told me that.’

  ‘I think she has a son who married an English girl, that’s why she moved back to the UK. They’re Anglo-Argentine. She’s one of those stoic women who just gets on with it. They don’t mope about and feel sorry for themselves. They carry on. It was women like that who built the Empire.’ He chuckled. ‘I didn’t know she was your friend too.’

  ‘I met her the day I arrived at the hotel. She introduced me to Emer. That was before they discovered what I was here for. I’m not exactly flavour of the month in the O’Leary household.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘If they knew Colm was a friend of mine too it would make us a group of three.’

  JP paused his work and looked at her. ‘If they knew what a good person you are, they’d see beyond the book, Margot.’

  ‘Like Dorothy, she’s never judged me.’ Margot sighed, feeling an expanding gratitude for her new friend. ‘I guess the O’Learys are just going to have to read it before they see me as a good person.’

  ‘I look forward to reading it,’ he said.

  ‘You, JP, will be the very first.’

  He smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs B walked in with a tray of tea and cake.

  ‘I have another friend who has arrived at the hotel,’ Margot continued. ‘He’s called Dan Chambers and he’s a well-known medium. He’s staying the week and doing lots of events and workshops. It’s Mrs de Lisle’s way of profiting from the castle’s ghosts,’ she added with a cynical chuckle.

  Mrs B put the tray down and began to pour the tea. ‘He’ll find plenty of ghosts there, as sure as there’s an eye in the needle,’ she said darkly. ‘God help us, I could feel them around me when I was doing a bit of cleaning. I wasn’t a bit worried about it because I always had a miraculous medal pinned to me vest and a little bottle of Lourdes water in me pocket. Sure the poor holy souls are only the same as ourselves, some are happy and contented and others are troubled and agitated. God guard us, some of them would cause trouble in an empty house. We are all one, the living and the dead, with only a thin veil between us.’

  ‘You should have heard Kitty talk about spirits,’ said JP, rolling his eyes. ‘Goodness, she was always going on about them, as if she had a direct line to the afterlife. Still, if your friend’s a good medium, he’s come to the right place. Mrs B is right. The castle is riddled with them.’

  ‘His first event is tonight,’ said Margot. ‘I was wondering whether you’d come with me.’

  JP frowned. ‘To see a medium?’

  ‘To see the hotel,’ she replied with emphasis.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘How long has it been since you’ve been up there?’

  ‘I haven’t been back since the day I moved out.’

  Margot was astonished. ‘Really? Not since then?’

  He shrugged. ‘I had no reason to.’

  Mrs B placed his teacup on the table beside him. She looked down at him, her face now grave with concern. She of all people knew how much the selling of that place had wounded him. ‘I’d let sleeping dogs lie,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Which dogs are those, Mrs B?’ asked JP.

  ‘Your own ghosts, m’lord. The ones that hounded you out of the castle in the first place.’

  Margot took the cup Mrs B offered her. ‘I don’t agree,’ she argued. ‘I think it could be very healing for you to go back. It’s only by letting the light into dark places that you banish fear.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of the castle,’ said JP cheerfully. ‘Of course I’ll come with you.’

  Mrs B cut the porter cake slowly. She’d like to have gone to the hotel too, but she was anxious. She didn’t think she’d be happy to see the Deverill home converted into a hotel, however sumptuous it was. Nevertheless, if Lord Deverill himself saw nothing wrong in visiting it, then she shouldn’t either. She’d wait and see what he thought of it and then, perhaps she’d be persuaded to go up there. She’d always been curious about those who claimed to communicate with the dead. Her brother’s face floated into her mind then and her heart felt soft and warm. She wondered whether the medium would be able to contact him.

  * * *

  That evening Colm and JP drew up outside the hotel in Colm’s Land Rover. They were silent. The sight of those stone walls and tall towers caused their chests to tighten with anguish and they were unable to find the words to express it. The family motto, carved into the stone above the front door, was now an affront because the castle was no longer the Deverills’ kingdom but the Deverills’ shame. It taunted JP as he climbed out of the car and stepped onto the gravel where Deverill feet had stepped for over three hundred years. He faltered a moment and put his hand on the vehicle to steady himself. He swept his eyes over the castle where memories shimmered on every glass window like reflections on water. Pictures from his past, both sad and happy, and each one pulled at his heart. He could hear Kitty’s voice begging him not to sell. He could hear his own response that he had no choice. He even heard Alana: How could you? How could you, JP?

  Margot had been waiting in the hall. When she saw them draw up she hurried outside. JP’s face was ashen. Colm was also solemn. Both were visibly unsure. For a fleeting moment she wondered whe
ther she had done the right thing in making JP come.

  ‘This is not going to be easy,’ she said, taking JP’s hand. ‘But we’re here with you.’

  He drew his eyes away from the windows and managed to give her a small, grateful smile. ‘I’m not going to be done in by this,’ he replied, pulling back his shoulders. ‘I’m going to face it head-on.’

  ‘You all right, Dad?’ Colm asked.

  ‘All right, son,’ JP replied. ‘Let’s see what ghosts come out of the shadows for us!’

  The doorman, in a long coat and top hat, greeted the esteemed guests with a smile and a nod and opened the door with a white-gloved hand. JP walked into the hall where Mr Dukelow was waiting to meet him. This was clearly a momentous occasion for the hotel manager. He stood to attention in his best navy-blue suit, pink-faced, wide-eyed, his most charming smile upon his lips. Lord Deverill betrayed none of the doubt he felt inside and extended his hand like a prince, with confidence and graciousness. He had none of the pomposity of the Countess, but was quietly spoken and polite, praising Mr Dukelow for the wonderful job he was doing, for didn’t the hotel look splendid? Then he introduced his son and Mr Dukelow shook Colm’s hand with vigour. Margot watched the manager fawn over JP, rubbing his hands together and thanking him for gracing them with his presence. To Margot’s cynical eye, it was too much. Mr Dukelow was unable to contain his excitement and used JP’s title in his speech as much as he used the Countess’s. Yet, Margot was wrong to think the flattery excessive, for JP seemed to get taller with every compliment, as if Mr Dukelow’s ill-concealed admiration was restoring to him a little of his damaged prestige. He hadn’t been out much over the years and, Margot imagined, he had most likely pictured a hostile public of gossiping, disapproving people. But here was Mr Dukelow telling him how honoured they were that he had come to their small event. He had set aside three seats in the front row and, if his lordship would like, he’d be happy to show him around the hotel afterwards so that he could see for himself the respect with which Mrs de Lisle had treated his former home. ‘She wanted it to retain the feeling of a home and not feel like a sterile hotel,’ Mr Dukelow told him. ‘It’s advertised as the Deverill family seat. I hope, when you look around, that you will agree that she has done a terrific job.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ said JP.

  ‘This is so good for Dad,’ said Colm to Margot as they followed Mr Dukelow through the castle to the ballroom, where, in bygone years, the Deverill summer balls had been the highlight of the Anglo-Irish calendar.

  ‘I worried that I might have been wrong to have persuaded him to come,’ she replied. ‘But doesn’t he look great in his suit? He looks every bit the Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly.’

  ‘I’m proud of him,’ Colm said. ‘I never thought I’d ever say those words. But I am, really proud of him.’

  Margot wanted to take his hand. She wanted to squeeze it to show him that, with every step they both took, she was right beside him. But she did not.

  The ballroom was full of people. Margot caught her breath when she saw it. Rows and rows of chairs and barely an empty one in the house. It was like a theatre, for a stage had been erected at one end. Mr Dukelow showed them to their seats in the middle of the front row. Margot and Colm sat side by side. As JP was about to sit down, a woman in the row behind him stood up to greet him. It was Dorothy. ‘Lord Deverill,’ she said. ‘You probably don’t remember me, but…’

  ‘Mrs Walbridge,’ he replied with a smile, sandwiching her hands in his. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’

  Dorothy was taken aback. She had not imagined him to look so well, or to appear so lucid. From what Emer had told her JP was a sorry drunk, wallowing in self-pity. But here was a man in command of all his faculties. A man with charisma and confidence and the loveliest twinkling blue eyes. He even smelled of lemon cologne. She couldn’t wait to tell Emer.

  Margot felt something touch her hand. She looked down to see Colm’s little finger brushing hers. It was a tiny gesture, hidden from view, but it meant a great deal to Margot. She turned her attention to the stage and smiled. As the audience welcomed the medium with loud clapping, Colm knew that her smile was for him.

  Kitty

  I am surprised and, dare I admit it, moved to see JP in the castle again. My half-brother whom I raised as my own son and loved as much as any mother who has carried her child in her belly for nine months, sits in the front row of the ballroom where once we danced beneath glittering chandeliers to the finest orchestras in the land, and I am overcome with emotion. My home, my beloved home, is once again restored to a Deverill, if only for one evening. But it feels right to see him there. It’s as if everything that has been out of kilter in this castle is now in balance once again. Sure, it is still a hotel, but with JP sitting in the front row of the grand ballroom, I feel that the missing piece has been replaced. With Colm by his side I feel the universe is sending me a sign. The Deverill legacy will live on. It will continue after JP with Colm and, in time, with Colm’s son. The castle will be restored to them, I just know it will. The only question is how. That, I don’t know.

  I stand on stage as Dan Chambers greets his audience. He is an elegant man with a gentle nature and a generous spirit. I cannot tell whether or not he is a medium, however. I wait with excitement and, I’m ashamed to admit, cynicism, because in my life I was a gifted medium and proud of it too. I’m doubtful that anyone is as good at communicating with the dead as my grandmother Adeline and I were.

  A part of me wants to hijack this meeting. Oh, the mischief I could make if he really can talk to spirits. I could give him wrong names and make him look like a fool. It’s dull where I am, after all. Sure, there are periods of interest like talking to Tarquin Deverill or watching Mrs Carbery spook the living, but for the most part it is uneventful here, like watching actors in a boring play that never ends. At first my anger kept me busy, my hauntings entertained me and the novelty of being privy to people’s secrets was exciting. But now I’m used to existing without a body to limit my movement and my anger has diminished somewhat. If the truth be told, I’m weary of being furious. It is an emotion that feeds on itself, like a snake that eats its own tail. The only person it hurts is me. I’m not sure why I didn’t see that before.

  The medium stands quietly and takes a moment to tune in. I know what that’s like. I used to tune in, too, when I was alive. It’s like turning the dial on a radio to find the right frequency. I stand beside him and whisper into his ear. ‘Santa Claus.’ I see the expression on his face. It is one of disbelief and horror. So, he is a medium, after all. A moment’s jubilation is replaced by a feeling of guilt. How can I, a woman who brought so much comfort to the grieving because of my gift of passing on messages from the deceased, play with a man who is only trying to do good? I am suddenly filled with shame.

  I am about to put it right by whispering my name, but then I notice a bright light to my left. I turn and see a child. A radiant child. She is dazzling. Her hair is golden and all around her is a halo of light. She exudes such a powerful feeling of love that I am humbled. I shrink back, my shame cloaking me in shadow, and watch as her energy hovers beside Mrs Walbridge. The old woman feels nothing. She’s watching and waiting like the rest of the audience, a little anxious now because the medium has been standing on the stage for a while now and he has said nothing.

  He looks at Mrs Walbridge and smiles. ‘Did you lose a little girl?’ he asks.

  Mrs Walbridge’s face flushes pink. She looks behind her, unsure whether or not the medium is speaking to her. Then, realizing that it is indeed her, she looks back and nods.

  ‘She’s showing me a lily,’ he tells her.

  Mrs Walbridge puts a hand on her mouth. ‘She was called Lillie,’ she gasps.

  ‘She passed when she was thirteen,’ he continues. ‘Was it leukaemia?’ Again Mrs Walbridge nods. ‘She’s showing me a house in a hot country with a garden full of flowers. I’m understanding South America. Argentina. She’s s
howing me a club where lots of elegant people are playing golf. She’s telling me that she loved to collect the balls, for they were hidden in the long grasses all over the grounds.’ Then he laughs. ‘Was there an ostrich who used to eat them?’

  Mrs Walbridge’s eyes are full of tears. She nods, then she laughs with him. I feel the love flowing between this bright spirit and her mother and am awed by the power of it. Awed that such a seemingly young spirit can have such an intense radiance.

  ‘She wants you to stop feeling guilty for leaving her remains in Argentina,’ he says. ‘Because she’s not there. She’s where you are.’ There’s a sigh from the audience who are as moved by what he is saying as I am. ‘Whenever you see a robin behaving strangely, know that your daughter is sending you a message to remind you that she’s with you.’ Mrs Walbridge wipes her eyes with a tissue. Her hand is trembling. Her daughter bends down and kisses the top of her head. I notice a shiver pass through her mother. ‘She has just kissed you,’ says the medium.

  I notice now that the room is aglow with hundreds of spirits. They are not dull like me and Mrs Carbery, who are earthbound. They come from Spirit and they are made of light. Pure white light. They are all eager to communicate with their loved ones. I know what they want to say. Spirits are all the same in that regard. They just want to reassure them that they are not dead, that they live on and that they love them. It is really very simple. With the room full of souls like this it is hard to believe that there are people who believe that death is the end of life. If only they could see what I see. How much easier life would be if people could be certain that those they love and lose just move on into another dimension, another state of being, and never leave them. That that is the fate of the majority of people, at least those who have love in their hearts. Those who are cruel should fear death very much.