The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  Emer shook her head. Dorothy was confused. It wasn’t like her to speak ill of someone. ‘Maybe they’re using each other,’ said Emer. ‘JP’s helping her with the book to hurt Alana, and Margot’s using him to get all the information she needs to make the book as juicy as possible.’

  ‘I think she’ll be tactful,’ said Dorothy in Margot’s defence.

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’

  ‘I’ve got to know her a little and my gut tells me that one can trust her.’

  Emer laughed. ‘Then you’ve fallen for her charm as well.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ said Dorothy in a small voice.

  ‘So do I, for Alana’s sake.’

  Then Dorothy understood why Emer had so vehemently taken against her. She was like a lioness protecting her cub. But what if Emer was right? What if Margot was playing them all? What if she was playing Colm? The old lady gazed into her teacup and frowned, a sick feeling brewing in her belly. Surely Margot wouldn’t be so callous?

  * * *

  Margot sat writing at her desk for the entire day. Her motto was Get it written, then get it right. Once she’d got the story down she could go back to the beginning and polish it to her heart’s content. The hard work was getting the facts onto the page. As entertaining as it was writing about Barton Deverill, it still required discipline and effort and a great deal of concentration. By teatime she realized that she needed to get out. To walk around the garden, get some fresh air and stretch her legs. She left the growing pile of A4 sheets of paper beside her typewriter and headed downstairs. It came as no surprise to see the Countess being escorted into the hall by Mr Dukelow. He was rubbing his hands together and smiling as he delivered compliments in extravagant superlatives. Margot dived behind a pillar in order to avoid them.

  ‘Might I offer you Mrs de Lisle’s sitting room for some privacy?’ he was saying as they passed her.

  Margot noticed the Countess put her hand on his forearm. ‘You are too kind, Mr Dukelow. You think of everything. No wonder you’re the manager of the hotel.’

  ‘I do my best to make sure important guests, such as yourself, are well taken care of.’

  ‘You most certainly do.’ She sighed. ‘What would Mrs de Lisle do without you?’

  Margot watched them leave the hall, then came out from her behind the pillar. There was something very out of place in the way the Countess had put her hand on his arm. Margot’s suspicions were raised. She knew when something was up. The older she got, the sharper her intuition became.

  She made her way outside. Róisín waved at her from reception. The porter greeted her at the door. Everyone in the hotel knew her well by now. The sun shone and birdsong filled the air. She inhaled the fertile scent of the soil and took pleasure from being outside after a whole day at her typewriter. She stretched her legs, taking long strides over the lawn. Then she glanced at the castle. She knew, from having looked out of the window of Mrs de Lisle’s private sitting room, where that room was located. She bit her lip. She knew it was imprudent, as there was a high chance of being spotted by the gardeners, but she felt a strong desire to spy on them through the window.

  She looked about her. No one seemed to be around. The lawn was quiet, the borders silent and still. A solitary pigeon cooed from the castle roof. She hoped the gardeners were busy in the vegetable garden and greenhouses. Trying to look nonchalant, she strolled towards the castle. She pretended to look in the flowerbeds, to sniff the odd plant, to appreciate the views. Then she sidled up to Mrs de Lisle’s sitting-room window. She glanced about her once more. She really did not want to be caught snooping. She leaned back against the stone and peered into the bottom corner of the window.

  The sight burned her eyes. She gasped. The Countess and the hotel manager were in a passionate embrace against the bookcase. They were kissing, their bodies moving together in a heated frottage. Margot tore her eyes away and hurried back onto the lawn, heart racing. Just as she set off towards the trees one of the gardeners drove out on a quadbike, pulling a cart of turf. He waved at her. Margot waved back. She sighed with relief. If she’d remained a moment longer at the window she would have been caught.

  She put her hands in her coat pockets and processed what she had just witnessed. Was the Countess after Mr Dukelow for his body or for something else? Sure, her husband was old and decrepit and Margot knew that women had their needs, but Mr Dukelow? It didn’t add up. As preposterous as the Countess was, she was a few rungs higher on the food chain than Mr Dukelow! Margot quickened her pace. She couldn’t wait to tell Colm.

  * * *

  Mrs B took a seat at the back of the ballroom and put her handbag on her knee. The room was full of people. Lord Deverill, Margot and Colm were in the front row, but she had wanted to come on her own so she hadn’t told them she was attending. She was glad she’d got there early because if she’d arrived any later she would not have found a seat at all. People were standing behind her and more were coming in. Word had got out about Dan Chambers’ extraordinary gift and they wanted to witness it for themselves. Mrs B looked around timidly. She imagined everyone here had lost someone. It was impossible to go through life without losing loved ones. We all go eventually, she thought to herself.

  Dan Chambers walked onto the stage. She was surprised by the sight of him. She thought he’d be more flamboyant. More like a wizard. But he was a tall, slim man – willowy, would be the right word, she thought, with a lovely face. Yes, indeed, it was lovely: gentle, wise and unassuming. The face of someone with a big heart and lots of love to give. She perked up. If Rafferty came through with a message, she was glad it would be delivered by a man like Dan Chambers. She felt she could rely on him to tell the truth. As he began to speak, she sat up. Her heart began to beat a little faster, a little harder, and her palms started to sweat. She told herself not to be nervous. But it was of no use. She wasn’t nervous because there was a chance she might hear from her brother; she was nervous that she wouldn’t.

  One by one the spirits came through and every time the recipient was moved to tears. The feeling of love in the room was overwhelming. Mrs B was moved. The spirits gave evidence first that it was really them, evidence that satisfied the bereaved in the audience and caused them to gasp in amazement. Then they sent their love. That was all it was really.

  She waited for Rafferty, but he never came.

  At the end of the two hours, which had felt like ten minutes, Dan took a sip of water. ‘I’m sorry if some of you are disappointed. There are so many spirits in the room, I’m unable to channel all of them. I’ll be back tomorrow evening, so do come again. They’re very persistent, these spirits, and they all want to pass on their love to you. I will do my best to acknowledge them all during the week that I am here. But for those of you who don’t receive a message, don’t despair. Your loved ones are with you, I promise. Love connects you to them and that is a bond that can never be broken.’

  Mrs B dabbed her eyes and put the ball of tissue in her handbag, then she got up and went back to the Hunting Lodge, her heart a little heavier, her sorrow more acute. I know you’re with me, Rafferty, and I’ll try not to be disappointed. I’ll go back again tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll come to me then.

  * * *

  The following morning Margot was joined at the breakfast table by Dorothy. She seemed a little pale. ‘Are you all right, Dorothy?’ Margot asked, pouring them both cups of tea.

  Dorothy sighed. ‘I’m fine, thank you, dear. But I’ve got something on my mind which I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’ By the anxious look on Dorothy’s face, Margot knew it wasn’t anything good.

  ‘It’s about the book you’re writing. I’m worried that it’s going to hurt people,’ she said.

  Margot was relieved it was only that. She was confident she was writing the book with enough tact to avoid hurting anyone. ‘You really don’t need to worry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t I?’ Dorothy gazed at her searchingly. ‘A
re you sure?’

  ‘You know you can trust me.’

  ‘I don’t really know that. After all, we haven’t been friends for very long.’

  ‘But what do your instincts tell you?’

  ‘To trust you,’ said Dorothy firmly.

  Margot thought a moment. She imagined her friend had been talking to Emer O’Leary. ‘Look, if it makes you feel better, you can read the first draft,’ she suggested. ‘Before I give it to anyone else. To be honest, I’d really value your opinion.’

  Dorothy’s eyes brightened for surely, if she couldn’t be trusted, Margot would never have allowed her a preview. ‘That would put my mind at rest,’ she replied gratefully.

  ‘It’s a history of the family, Dorothy. The recent past is only a tiny part of it. I will choose what to put in and what to keep out with sensitivity. It’s not an exposé.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. You are the master of your pen. I’m sure you’ll be tactful.’ Dorothy’s mood now lifted. The colour was restored to her cheeks and she was as chirpy as a chaffinch. She swept her eyes around the room. ‘It’s busy, isn’t it, this place?’

  ‘It’s doing well. Like her or not, Mrs de Lisle has done a very good job of it.’

  ‘A splendid job. Tell me, what did JP think of it? Was it the first time he’d been back?’

  ‘It was the first time both he and Colm had been back. They were both impressed. I think JP was surprised at how nice everyone was to him. I think he felt the world was against him.’

  ‘Not the world. Only his ex-wife,’ said Dorothy with a sorry smile. ‘I’m glad he’s made up with his son. There’s nothing as important as family.’

  Margot reflected on the fact that she had no family. ‘I’d say there’s nothing more important than friends,’ she said with emphasis and smiled at Dorothy.

  Dorothy smiled back. How could Emer have suggested Margot was playing them all? If she knew Margot like she knew her, she’d realize what a sweet person she was.

  * * *

  Margot was talking to Róisín at the reception desk when the Countess glided into the hall. She was met by Mr Dukelow, who shook her hand in a formal greeting. Margot searched for a hint of the intimacy she had witnessed in Mrs de Lisle’s sitting room, but found none. The Countess moved gracefully into the dining room where she was seated at a table of six American tourists. They stood when she entered and she gave her hand to each one in turn, smiling graciously and repeating their names as they introduced themselves so she would not forget them. They looked thrilled to see her, electrified, as if she were royalty.

  ‘The Countess seems to be spending more and more time here,’ said Margot to Róisín.

  Róisín grinned. ‘It’s good money, I suppose,’ she replied with a shrug.

  Margot was stunned. ‘Is she being paid?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Róisín, lowering her voice. ‘Mr Dukelow pays her for entertaining the guests. They’re delighted, of course, to be in the presence of someone connected to the castle.’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine she needs the money,’ said Margot, knowing from the sorry sight of her poor husband that she did.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Perhaps it’s more of an ego trip for her, being lauded by tourists. She can pretend she’s the chatelaine of the castle. She’d like that, she would.’ Róisín gave a little snort. ‘I’ll admit to you, and only you, that I don’t like her one little bit.’

  ‘I think I agree with you,’ said Margot. ‘But Mr Dukelow is rather taken by her,’ she added, throwing a line into the water and hoping to hook a salmon.

  ‘He’s bedazzled by her. But that’s typical of Mr Dukelow, he gets overexcited about important people. The trouble is, sometimes he can’t tell the difference between really important people and those who are pretending!’ Róisín pulled a face. ‘But I mustn’t speak ill of my boss or I’ll go to Hell!’ She laughed. ‘It would be better to invite Lord Deverill to speak to the guests. He’s the real deal, isn’t he? That would put the silly Countess in her place.’

  * * *

  That evening Mrs B took a seat in the ballroom and placed her handbag on her knee. Once again the room was full and once again she silently reached out to Rafferty and asked him to come through. Dan walked onto the stage and a hush came over the room. The air seemed to thicken and still. Mrs B’s heart-rate quickened again. She almost forgot to breathe. Might her dear brother come through for her tonight?

  Kitty

  I stand behind the medium and observe the room before him, filled with both the living and the dead. I see spirits shining with love and notice a few shadowy earthbound spirits who have been drawn into the room to watch the spectacle. Among them is Mrs Carbery. She blinks in bewilderment at the sight, such as she has never seen before. In comparison to the spirits, she is like a little brown hen. She runs her gaze over the people for I’m not sure that she can see the spirits like I can. Their light is too bright for her. She could not endure it, I don’t imagine.

  When she recognizes her daughter, Bessie, she is stunned. Her small face opens into a beautiful smile. I have never seen her smile before. She has always been miserable, her mouth downturned, her eyes lacklustre and sad. But now they acquire a light of their own and gleam. ‘My Bessie!’ she exclaims. ‘My little Bessie!’ She tries to get her attention, but her efforts are fruitless. Bessie sits with her handbag on her knee, her hand trembling as she dabs her eyes with a tissue. She is hopeful, yet expectant of disappointment.

  Mrs Carbery is desperate. She is now standing on the stage, right beside the medium, but I can tell that he does not hear her. I realize then that I have the power to do something and I must do it. I must attract the medium’s attention. If I cannot help her find the light then at least I can help her communicate with her daughter.

  With all the will I can muster I send a ripple through the air and the tissue in Bessie’s hand flies out and floats off like a dove. The people sitting next to her gasp too and a murmur of voices interrupts the medium’s concentration. I send another ripple out and the jug on the table beside the medium falls over, spilling water onto the stage. The murmur grows louder. The medium narrows his eyes. ‘I believe someone is trying to get my attention,’ he says. He puts up his hand. ‘Fear not,’ he adds. ‘It is a friendly spirit. A spirit desperate for communication, I believe.’

  Mrs Carbery speaks. ‘I want to talk to Bessie,’ she says. But the medium still cannot hear her.

  I am now in a rage. It’s just not fair that poor Mrs Carbery, a lost and earthbound spirit, is not able to pass on a message to her daughter. I send out a thought to those higher beings who I know must be there, asking for help. Mrs Carbery’s light dims and she retreats into the corner of the room. She is so small now, and subdued, that it is almost impossible to make her out from the shadows.

  Bessie’s mouth is still agape. She is alert, her eyes jumping about the room, anticipating something. She knows the tissue didn’t fly out of her hand on its own. Perhaps she senses that someone in Spirit is wanting to communicate with her. Or maybe she is just hopeful. I cannot bear for her to be disappointed. Her pain is visible in the aura around her body. I can see it and I want so very badly to heal it. I send out another request for aid. If anyone is out there who can help, for God’s sake, do something!

  And then my prayer is answered.

  A light, brighter than all the lights in the room, appears on the stage. It is the radiance of the crippled child who came down to rescue his father, Tarquin Deverill. With him is a handsome boy. He must be about seventeen. His hair is blond, his eyes are bright blue. He has a sweet expression on his face. The medium stops talking. He cannot ignore or fail to sense this advanced soul who now stands before him.

  Silence descends on the room. There is no movement. Not even a cough or a sniff. Nothing. It is as if everyone here senses the presence of this beautiful soul.

  The medium narrows his eyes. He tunes in.

  ‘I have a young man here called Rafe or Rafferty,’
says the medium.

  Bessie lets out a moan. The name strikes her in the heart. She puts a hand there. She is too astonished to speak.

  ‘Is there anyone here who lost a young man called Rafe or Rafferty? He was a quiet young man, thoughtful. He liked to sing ballads. He had a little sister called Bessie or Bess.’

  Mrs B lets out another moan. The woman beside her puts up her hand. ‘I think it’s this lady here,’ she says, pointing to Bessie. ‘It is you, isn’t it, dear?’

  Mrs B nods.

  The medium looks at Bessie with compassion. ‘He says he was killed in the civil war. But he has forgiven the man who killed him, for he took no pleasure in it.’

  Bessie is now crying. Fat tears are running down her face. She is too stunned by what the medium is saying to brush them away.

  ‘He’s telling me that you light a candle for him and your parents every night and say a prayer: Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.’

  I am moved to see the joy that is now glowing in Bessie’s chest. It is like a flame that is burning away the pain, purging it, restoring her broken heart with love. She nods, but she is still unable to speak.

  ‘He wants you to carry his love throughout the rest of your life, not the memory of his death or the ache of his absence. Life is for living, he is telling me, and he doesn’t want you to miss a moment of it. He will be with you when you pass. He will take your hand and lead you into the light.’

  Bessie can no longer see for tears. She is overwhelmed, but full of happiness.

  And then an extraordinary thing happens. Mrs Carbery comes out of the shadows. Her son Rafferty reaches out his hand. She sees him, this shining soul, and her face is aglow with love. I too am overwhelmed. I watch, rapt, as she puts her hand in his and the three of them, the crippled child, Mrs Carbery and her son, disappear into the light.

  She found it at last. Heaven.