A Secret in Clover Cove: a heart-warming romance set on the beautiful west coast of Ireland

by Maggie Finn

  ‘New York. That… that’s great,’ she said weakly.

  He laughed.

  ‘Well don’t sound too enthusiastic.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just my dad used to go there a lot and it made me think of him.’

  ‘Is he your family problem?’ asked Danny, ‘The one that made you so…?’

  ‘Crabby? Yes, he’s the one. I suppose it’s the same thing; I want to please Dad and do my best, but he asks so much of me and doesn’t seem to appreciate any of it.’

  She glanced at Danny.

  ‘Love can be so painful, can’t it?’

  Danny pulled up his sleeve and showed Tessa a bruise on his arm.

  ‘You mean like this?’

  ‘Ouch! Is that from the…?’

  ‘The sculpture lady, yes.’

  Tessa pulled a sympathetic face.

  ‘Okay, so I think I probably owe you one.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Look, I’m not sure this will help you, but I heard something this morning. I saw Charles Balcon and he suggested that the deal with Ross wasn’t entirely off.’

  Danny turned to face her.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly, but it was something like “never say never”, ‘talks are ongoing’, something like that.’

  ‘He’s still negotiating with Ross Oil? But how? I mean, how are they going to get around the church owning the beach?’

  ‘He didn’t say, but I got the impression something’s afoot and if I were a newshound like you, Charles Balcon would be the next person I spoke to.’

  Danny jumped up, rubbing sand from the seat of his trousers. ‘Thanks Tessa. Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

  He turned and ran down the harbor wall, leaving Tessa sitting there alone.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. Then she burst out laughing.

  Chapter Ten

  The Mini’s wheels spun, the car hopelessly stuck.

  ‘No, no, no!’ muttered Danny, jamming the gearstick into reverse. The engine growled in irritation, but the car didn’t move that way either. Stifling a curse, he clunked back into first, stamping on the accelerator, but all that achieved was a sideways slide. He turned off the engine and jumped out: the car was axle-deep in mud. Danny shook his head. Irish roads. The hills and valleys and quaint little villages they led to were the envy of the world, but no one had thought to make the lanes between them passable. They were riddled with potholes, blind bends and terrible drainage, and it wasn’t uncommon to turn a corner and find sheep happily settled in for the day, sunning themselves on the warm tarmac. This time Danny seemed to be stuck in a bottomless bog – a bog that hadn’t been there this morning when he had driven past. It was like a muddy version of a snow-drift, probably washed there by a sudden downpour. He squinted up at the cloudless blue sky. No wonder people believed in Leprechauns in these parts: blaming mischievous little imps in green hats for your misfortune made more sense than Ireland’s crazy meteorology. He looked up at the hum of an approaching vehicle, hoping for a tractor or a Land Rover. His heart sank when he saw Darragh Meany in his forest green Renault 4, a car which hadn’t exactly been known for its power when it had rolled off the production line in the sixties. Darragh leant out of the window.

  ‘So you’ll be stuck, then?’

  ‘Looks that way Bry.’

  ‘Ah, well it’ll be the Good Lord’s will.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘That I do,’ said Darragh stepping out to inspect Danny’s car. ‘I saw the Bishop himself stuck in that very spot not half an hour ago. And who else than the Almighty would dare to cross Bishop Ray?’

  ‘You could be right, Darragh. But he’s not here now.’

  ‘God? But isn’t He all around us?’

  ‘The Bishop,’ said Danny patiently. ‘He’s gone, so there must be a way out of this mud.’

  ‘Sure and there is. The power of prayer,’ he grinned. Darragh popped open his boot. ‘And a tow rope.’

  Danny looked at the frayed orange rope, then at Darragh’s rusty car.

  ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking, she don’t look like much,’ said Darragh, ‘I’ll grant you that. But she’s got some poke.’

  ‘She’ll need it,’ said Danny dubiously.

  Darragh quickly hooked the mini to his car. ‘Alright, when the rope goes tight, you give her all she’s got.’

  Danny gave Darragh a thumbs-up, then watched as the Renault slowly moved away. As instructed, Danny threw the Mini into gear the moment he felt the tow rope tug. Immediately Darragh’s car slid back into the mud, wheels spinning, spraying Danny’s windscreen with a layer of goo.

  ‘Keep going!’ shouted Darragh, ‘Give her some welly!’

  Danny jammed his foot down, listening to the engine roar and then a bump, the tires bit and both cars jumped forward and stalled. Danny gunned the engine again and – against all odds – finally he was up on the road, free of the mud.

  Darragh pulled on his handbrake and rolled his window down.

  ‘Well who could doubt the Lord’s intentions now?’

  ‘Thanks Bry. You’re a life-saver.’

  ‘Not at all. You’ll do the same one of these days; isn’t that how it works?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Danny looked up the road. ‘Hey, if the Bishop got stuck here, where was he heading?’

  ‘The Big House I expect. It’s the only thing at the end of that lane.’

  ‘He’s visiting Sir Charles?’

  Darragh pouted thoughtfully.

  ‘He didn’t say, but unless he was going fishing from the rocks, there’s nothing much else much up that way. And he didn’t have a rod.’

  ‘Thanks Bry. Your reward will be in heaven.’

  ‘Or the Other Place. But I’m not averse to a drink while I’m waiting.’

  Danny laughed. ‘Then your reward will be in Connor’s next time I see you.’

  Danny waved and drove off, suddenly rather less keen to visit Sleagh Castle. The Bishop was there and the old man had always made him feel like a naughty schoolboy. Of course, Darragh had rescued the priest half an hour ago, he could easily have turned around and gone home by now. No: as Danny turned into the drive, the Bishop’s car was there. It was hard to mistake. A 1950s Duesenburg, Danny had heard he had snapped it up when the Americans had closed down their wartime radar installation at Kilpatrick in the 1960s, selling off anything they couldn’t ship home. Black, of course, just like the priest’s vestments. Danny had never seen Ray in anything else.

  He parked the Mini and respectful distance from the priest’s car and walked up to the wide front door. It was an impressive building, a grey stone fortified house with a central tower. A grand, more formal wing had been added at some later date, but it was the original castle that drew the eye and featured on the postcards you could buy down in the Post Office. Carefully climbing from the mud-spattered Mini, Danny crunched across the drive, pulled on the bell and waited. Nothing. He rapped on the oak door, but it was like tapping on a pile of bricks. Solid, centuries-old oak, it was presumably created for defense not social engagements. Danny stepped back, considered trying the handle, but knew that was a sure way to draw the disapproval of the Bishop. Bishop Ray was very big on doing things the correct way and walking into someone’s house unannounced was a big no-no. Instead, Danny followed a path around the back of the house, hoping to find some sort of side door; surely one man couldn’t genuinely live in this place all on his own. He came to a terrace, with wide windows looking towards the sea. Gingerly, he peeked in through the glass and immediately jerked back. Bishop Ray was sitting right next to the window – only inches from Danny’s looming face, although luckily his back was to the view. Trying to control his breathing, Danny risked another peek and saw Sir Charles just leaving the room. Bishop Ray was leaning over a table, examining something spread out over it. Danny tried to see what it was: a map perhaps? He jumped back again as the priest moved away from the table, but he didn’t turn, so Danny craned his neck
a little more, trying to see what was drawing the Bishop’s attention on the table. There was a tray of tea things and beyond that, seemed to be some sort of document. His eyes widened: the documents from the chapel? Could it be? And if it was, why was he showing them to Sir Charles? Surely Charles Balcon was the enemy in this instance? Fumbling in his pocket, Danny pulled out his phone and flipped to camera mode, holding it up against the glass, clicking off a few shots. Maybe he could have them enhanced back at the office, see if anything on the papers could be read.

  Just then the priest crossed to the door and peeked out, obviously looking for his host. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. Bishop Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver flask. Quickly unscrewing the top, Danny watched in disbelief as the old man put it to his lips and took a swig, winced, then took another. Was he drinking… booze? Danny felt his jaw drop. Bishop Ray had built a career on fighting the demon drink and yet here he was. Instantly Danny’s journalistic instincts kicked in and he held up his phone again, clicking the digital shutter just as the Bishop took another nip, then turned towards the table and poured a quick glug from the flask into a tea cup, quickly slipping it back into his inside pocket as Sir Charles reappeared from the next room.

  Danny knew he was pushing his luck and ducked down, heading back towards the front of the house, headlines already forming in his head. OMG. Bishop Ray, the teetotal, pious anti-drink campaigner, veteran of picket lines outside pubs from Clover Cove to Kildare. And it turned out he liked a drop of the sauce. Danny put a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. It was too delicious. The Bishop had always made such a big deal about how Danny and his friends – the entire county, in fact – were incorrigible sinners, and yet here he was the great man himself with his own secret vice.

  Back at the front of the house, Danny looked towards his car. His first thought was to jump in and roar away, but what if he’d been seen? What if Pat saw the bishop and told him? No, that would look too suspicious. He’d have to go in.

  Danny pulled the bell again. Still nothing. He knocked again; harder this time, but only succeeded in bruising his knuckles more. Unless someone was standing next to him, he doubted they’d hear a thing.

  There was nothing else for it: he lifted the heavy iron latch and opened the door. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Sir Charles?’

  He heard footsteps and saw the owner coming from the direction of the room he’d last seen him in.

  ‘Hello Danny, do come on in,’ he called, raising a friendly hand. ‘Never know when anyone’s visiting, really should get myself a working doorbell.’

  He shook Danny’s hand firmly.

  ‘So to what do we owe this honor? Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Business, I’m afraid. I’d like to ask you a few questions, but I saw the Bishop’s car… I can come back another time if it’s inconvenient?’ he said, almost willing the man to take the bait and say ‘Yes, that’s probably better.’

  ‘No, no, do come on in, we were just finishing up anyway.’

  As Danny looked up, he saw the Bishop step into the hallway, holding a battered leather briefcase. He bit back his disappointment: whatever he had shown Sir Charles, the priest had quickly secreted it away. But then again, perhaps that part of the story was no longer quite so important.

  ‘Daniel Brennan,’ said Bishop Ray, ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s fine, thanks. Just visited in fact.’

  He nodded his approval. ‘Good that you’re family-minded at least.’

  At least. Despite all your other faults.

  Sir Charles turned to the Bishop. ‘Well may I suggest we continue our discussion on the telephone, perhaps tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that would be fine. I need to…’ the Bishop glanced quickly at Danny, ‘…finish looking into it and all, but I shouldn’t think we’re too far off.’

  ‘Good news,’ smiled Sir Charles, ushering the man towards the entrance.

  ‘Now, shall we go through to the study?’ said Sir Charles as he closed the door. ‘I’ve just made tea, I can freshen the pot if you’d like?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be great,’ said Danny.

  Nodding affably, Charles picked up the teapot. ‘Won’t be two ticks,’ he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  As soon as Charles was gone, Danny crossed to the table and, picking up the teacup, sniffed it. His nose wrinkled: brandy. Looking around again, Danny took a photo of the cup, then opened his bag, pulling out a half-full bottle of water. Scanning the room, he immediately spotted what he needed: a large pot plant. He stepped across to it, then emptied the remaining water. The rubber plant looked as if it would be glad of the drink.

  Back at the table, Danny poured the contents of the Bishop’s teacup into the water bottle and twisted the lid on tight. He had just slipped it into his bag.

  Breathing out, he looked around. He looked at the map on the table; it was a maritime chart of Clover Cove showing not just the headland and beach, but also the various depths and channels of the sea. There was also a couple of large leather bound legal books. Interesting.

  The books led Danny to look at the bookshelves. Wow, thought Danny, tilting his head. Sir Charles had quite a collection of literary classics. Thoreau, Hawthorne, Longfellow; but also modern writers: Hemingway, Steinbeck, Frost. Danny slid out a volume of Orwell’s collected works and opened it.

  ‘In Moulmein, in Lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.’

  He looked up just as Sir Charles re-entered carrying the pot.

  ‘Here we go – tea always oils the wheels, doesn’t it?’

  You don’t know the half of it, thought Danny, thinking of the brandy in the Bishop’s cup.

  Charles nodded towards the book in Danny’s hands.

  ‘Ah, I see you appreciate the written word – but of course you do, how silly of me. It’s your profession after all.’

  Sir Charles craned his neck to see what Danny was reading. ‘And Orwell too, a fine choice. I’m a particular fan of his early stuff, I don’t think most people realize he began as a reporter just like you.’

  He fixed Danny with a searching look.

  ‘And I imagine you’re the kind of chap who’d like to follow in the great man’s footsteps, am I right? Is there a book in you Danny?’

  ‘I doubt there’s a writer alive who hasn’t had an idle dream about writing another Animal Farm or 1984. Not sure I have the same genius though.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. Words are funny that way, aren’t they? They fly off into the world and sometimes they disappear, but sometimes they catch people by surprise, stick in their heads, change their lives.’

  Danny slipped the book back onto the shelf.

  ‘You’re a romantic, Sir Charles.’

  ‘I would hope,’ said the blonde man. ‘And don’t change the subject. What’s stopping you from writing a great novel?’

  Danny shrugged. ‘Time, I suppose.’

  Charles lifted the teapot and poured.

  ‘P.G. Wodehouse was once asked his advice for someone who wanted to be an author. You know what he said? “Bum on seat, start typing.”’

  Danny accepted his tea, glad of the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘So what was Bishop Ray doing here?’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were a church-goer.’

  ‘Oh I have my moments, but it was nothing to do with that. No, I asked Ray over to talk through this issue regarding access to my estate.’

  ‘The Ross Oil thing?’ said Danny, surprised. He had expected Charles to pretend they were discussing a donation to the church’s roof fund.

  ‘Well the Ross project brought the issue up, but I was obviously concerned to clarify exactly what rights my family own. The fact that the Church of Ireland owns access rights to my land from the sea was a complete shock frankly. I’m rather sure it would have been a surprise to many of my ancestors too, espe
cially as our roads and bays have been used to launch boats and haul nets for centuries without issue.’

  ‘Perhaps the church didn’t object because they thought fishing was in the interest of the community.’

  Charles gave a thin smile.

  ‘Is that to imply that the development of a scheme that would create hundreds of local jobs is not in the interest of the community?’

  Danny held up a hand.

  ‘I am just a reporter. I am here to report the facts, not take sides.’

  ‘Really? Because it does rather look to me that your editorials are against the scheme.’ Charles picked up an issue of the paper from the sideboard and dropped it onto the table. ‘Oil Scheme Thwarted’ read the headline.

  ‘I believe I am referred to as a “millionaire landlord” and an “English fat cat”.’

  Danny winced.

  ‘My editor is skeptical about Ross Oil.’

  ‘It would seem.’

  ‘So what was the result of your meeting?’ asked Danny, keen to move on.

  ‘Oh, the Bishop gave me the broad strokes,’ said Charles, ‘But my lawyers will be examining everything with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘So you – and Ross Oil – will push ahead if you can overturn the decision?’

  ‘Let’s just say we are looking into every eventuality and will take a view when we have all the facts.’

  ‘But you have been talking to Ross Oil? They are still interested?’

  ‘Of course. An environmentally friendly project with a huge upside for the local economy? Why wouldn’t they?’

  ‘And a huge upside for the Balcon estate.’

  ‘Of course there is self-interest. But I hold fast to my original position: I want to know exactly how Ross plan to go about it. I’m not going to throw the people of Clover Cove to the wolves. I take my role as a landlord seriously. I just want the best for the Cove.’

  ‘Even if that means a beauty spot is destroyed?’

  Charles tilted his head.

  ‘Self-interest, Danny? Don’t you have one of the few houses that overlooks the Cove?’